RIVIERA 
TOWNS 


:fC^ 


"The  hill  of  Cagnes  we  could  rave  about" 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


By 
HERBERT  ADAMS  GIBBONS 


fFith  Thirty-two  Full-Page  Illustrations 

By 
LESTER  GEORGE  HORNBY 


NEW  YORK 
ROBERT  M.  McBRIDE  &  CO. 

1920 


Copyright,      1920,      by  '     O 

RoBEKT    M.    McBridk    &    Co. 


as 


Copyright.   1917,   1918,    1920, 
By  Harper  &  Brothers 


Printed      in       the 
United     States      of     America 


Of  this  first  edition  of  Riviera 
Towns  only  two  thousand 
copies      have       been      printed 


First     Published     1920 


To 

Helen  and  Margaret 

Who  Indulge 

The  Author  and  the  Artist 


76f)631 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

We  wish  to  thank  the  editors  of  Harper's 
Magazine  for  allowing  the  republication 
of  articles  and  illustrations. 

H.  A.  G. 

L.  G.  H. 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Grasse 3 

11.  Cagnes 21 

III.  Saint-Paul-du-Var 39 

IV.  VILLENEUVE-LOUBET 55 

V.  Vence 71 

VI.  Menton 79 

VII.  Monte  Carlo 89 

yill.  Villefranche loi 

IX.  Nice iii 

X.  Antibes 123 

XI.  Cannes 135 

XII.  MouGiNs 149 

XIII.  Frejus 163 

XIV.  Saint-Raphael 179 

XV.  Theoule 191 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"The  hill  of  Cagnes  we  could  rave  about"  .      .  Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"His  eye  had  caught  a  fourteenth-century  cul-de-sac"         8 

"A  grandfather  omnibus,  which  dated  from  the  Second 

Empire" I4 

"Beyond,  the  Mediterranean  rose  to  the  horizon"  .      .       24 

"The  houses  of  the  Moorish  quarter  are  built  into  the 

ancient  city  walls" 3- 

"The  walls  rose  sheer,  and  only  the  outer  houses,  di- 
rectly behind  the  ramparts,  were  in  our  line  of 
vision" .•       44 

"The  houses  in  the  courts  were  stables  downstairs"     .       50 

"A  castle  of  unusual  size  and  severity  of  outline  rises 

above  the  trees  of  a  park" 56 

"Villeneuve-Loubet  is  built  against  a  cliff.     The  houses 

rise  on  tiers  of  stone  terraces" 60 

"The  river  was  swirling  around  willows  and  poplars"      66 

"Down  the  broad  road  of  red  shale  past  meadows  thick 

with  violets" 74 

"Ancient  £ze  is  on  a  lower  hill  midway  between  you 

and  the  Mediterranean" 80 

"La  Turbie  is  not  a  town  to  hurry  away  from  after 
lunch.  Its  leaning  houses  brought  out  the  Ar- 
tist's pencil" 84 

"The   strength   of   Monaco   is   the  weakness   of   the 

world" 92 

"Medieval  streets  and  buildings  have  almost  disap- 
peared"        102 

"Italian  in  blood  and  culture  and  instincts"  ....     112 
ix 


X  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"The  Old  Town  takes  you  far  from  the  psychology  of 

cosmopolitanism  and  the  philosophy  of  hedonism"     ii8 

"The  French  atmosphere  begins  to  impress   one  at 

Antibes" 124 

"Saint-Honorat  was  a  monastic  establishment  from  the 

fourth  century  to  the  Revolution" 130 

"La  Napoule,  above  whose  tower  on  the  sea  rose  a 
hill  crowned  with  the  ruins  of  a  chapel.  Behind 
were  the  Maritime  Alps" 136 

"A  bit  out  of  the  past,  and  of  another  world  in  the 

present" 140 

"Around  Cannes  the  gardens  are  more  important  than 

the  buildings" 142 

"There  is  less  charm  in  the  sellers  than  at  Nice"     .      .     144 

"The  arch  of  a  city  gate  lost  itself  in  a  modem  build- 
ing across  the  street" 152 

"Mougins  lives  in  medieval  fashion,  and  has  no  use  for 

gutters  and  drains" 156 

"The  Comiche  de  I'Esterel  is  a  road  of  copper  rocks 

and  azure  sea" 164 

"Frejus  belongs  to  no  definite  period.  It  has  no 
marked  racial  characteristics  in  architecture  or 
inhabitants" 166 

"Arose  a  huge  square  tower  of  the  Norman  period"    .      168 

"Exploring  the  alleys  of  the  medieval  quarter"       .      .     174 

"We  discovered  that  Saint-Raphael  had  its  old  town"     184 

"To  the  west  the  Gulf  of  La  Napoule  ends  in  the  pine- 
covered  promontory  of  the  Esquillon"  ....      194 

"Despite  curves,  the  road  is  continuously  steep,  and 
keeps  a  heavy  grade  until  it  reaches  the  Pointe  de 
TEsquillon" 200 


GRASSE 


Ji] 


,^ 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


CHAPTER  I  .        •  • 

Grasse 

FOR  several  months  I  had  been  seeing  Grasse  every- 
day. The  atmosphere  of  the  Midi  is  so  clear  that  a 
city  fifteen  miles  away  seems  right  at  hand.  You  can 
almost  count  the  windows  in  the  houses.  Against  the  ris- 
ing background  of  buildings  every  tower  stands  out,  and 
you  distinguish  one  roof  from  another.  From  my  study 
window  at  Theoule,  Grasse  was  as  constant  a  tempta- 
tion as  the  two  islands  in  the  Bay  of  Cannes.  But  the 
things  at  hand  are  the  things  that  one  is  least  liable  to 
do.  They  are  reserved  for  "some  day"  because  they  can 
be  done  "any  day."  Since  first  coming  to  Theoule,  I  had 
been  a  week's  journey  south  of  Cairo  into  the  Sudan, 
and  to  Verdun  in  an  opposite  comer  of  France.  Menton 
[3] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


and  St.  Raphael,  the  ends  of  the  Riviera,  had  been  vis- 
ited.   Grasse,  two  hours  away,  remained  unexplored. 

I  owe  to  the  Artist  the  pleasure  of  becoming  acquainted 
with  Grasse.  One  day  a  telegram  from  Bordeaux  stated 
that  he  had  just  landed,  and  was  taking  the  train  for 
Theoule.  The  next  evening  he  arrived.  I  gave  him  my 
study  for  a  bedroom.  The  following  morning  he  looked 
out  of  the  window,  and  asked,  "What  is  that  town  up 
there  behind  Cannes,  the  big  one  right  under  the  moun- 
tains?" 

"Grasse,  the  home  of  perfumes,"  I  answered. 

"I  don't  care  what  it's  the  home  of,"  was  his  charac- 
teristic response.  "Is  it  old  and  all  right?"  ("All  right" 
to  the  Artist  means  "full  of  subjects.") 

"I  have  never  been  there,"  I  confessed. 

^he  Artist  was  fresh  from  New  York.  "We'll  go 
this  morning,"  he  announced. 

From  sea  to  mountains,  the  valley  between  the  Comiche 
de  I'Esterel  and  Nice  produces  every  kind  of  vegetation 
known  to  the  Mediterranean  littoral.  Memories  of  Spain, 
Algeria,,  Egypt,  Palestine,  Asia  Minor,  Greece  and  Italy 
are  constantly  before  you.  But  there  is  a  difference. 
The  familiar  trees  and  bushes  and  flowers  of  the  Orient 
do  not  spring  here  from  bare  earth.  Even  where  culti- 
vated land,  wrested  from  the  mountain  sides,  is  labo- 
riously terraced,  stones  do  not  predominate.  Earth  and 
rock  are  hidden  by  a  thick  undergrowth  of  grass  and 
creepers  that  defies  the  sun,  and  draws  from  the  nearby 
mountain  snow  a  perennial  supply  of  water.  Olive  and 
[4] 


GRASSE 

plane,  almond  and  walnut,  orange  and  lemon,  cedar  and 
cork,  palm  and  umbrella-pine,  grape-vine  and  flower-bush 
have  not  the  monopoly  of  green.  It  is  the  Orient  with- 
out the  brown,  the  Occident  with  the  sun. 

The  Mediterranean  is  more  blue  than  elsewhere  be- 
cause firs  and  cedars  and  pines  are  not  too  green.  The 
cliffs  are  more  red  than  elsewhere  because  there  is  no 
prevailing  tone  of  bare,  baked  earth  to  modify  them 
into  brown  and  gray.  On  the  Riviera  one  does  not  have 
to  give  up  the  rich  green  of  northern  landscapes  to  enjoy 
the  alternative  of  brilliant  sunshine. 

As  we  rode  inland  toward  Grasse,  the  effect  of  green 
underground  and  background  upon  Oriental  foliage  was 
shown  in  the  olives,  dominant  tree  of  the  valley  and  hill- 
sides. It  was  the  old  familiar  olive  of  Africa  and  Asia 
and  the  three  European  peninsulas,  just  as  gnarled,  just 
as  gray-green  in  the  sun,  just  as  silvery  in  the  wind.  But 
its  colors  did  not  impress  themselves  upon  the  landscape. 
Here  the  olive  was  not  master  of  all  that  lives  and  grows 
in  its  neighborhood.  In  a  landscape  where  green  replaces 
brown  and  gray  pink,  the  olive  is  not  supreme.  Its  own 
foliage  is  invaded :  for  frequently  rose  ramblers  get  up 
into  its  branches,  and  shoot  out  vivid  flashes  of  crimson 
and  scarlet.  There  is  also  the  yellow  of  the  mimosa,  and 
the  inimitable  red  of  the  occasional  judas-tree.  Orange 
trees  blossom  white.  Lilacs  and  wisteria  give  the  shades 
between  red  and  blue.  As  if  in  rebellion  against  too  much 
green,  the  rose-bushes  put  forth  leaves  of  russet-brown. 
It  is  a  half-hearted  protest,  however,  for  Grasse  rose- 
[5] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


bushes  are  sparing  of  leaves.  Carefully  cultivated  for  the 
purpose  of  bearing  to  the  maximum,  every  shoot  holds 
clusters  beyond  what  would  be  the  breaking-point  were 
there  not  artificial  support.  Nature's  yield  is  limited  only 
by  man's  knowledge,  skill  and  energy. 

As  we  mounted  steadily  the  valley,  we  had  the  impres- 
sion that  there  was  nothing  ahead  of  us  but  olives.  First 
the  perfume  of  oranges  and  flowers  would  reach  us. 
Then  the  glory  of  the  roses  would  burst  upon  us,  and  we 
looked  up  from  them  to  the  flowering  orange  trees. 
Wherever  there  was  a  stretch  of  meadow,  violets  and 
daisies  and  buttercups  ran  through  the  grass.  Plowed 
land  was  sprinkled  with  mustard  and  poppies.  The  olive 
had  been  like  a  curtain.  When  it  lifted  as  we  drew  near, 
we  forgot  that  there  were  olives  at  all ! 

The  Artist  developed  at  length  his  favorite  theory  that 
the  richest  colors,  the  sweetest  scents  were  those  of  blos- 
soms that  bloomed  for  pure  joy.  The  most  delicate  fla- 
vors were  those  of  fruits  and  berries  that  grew  without 
restraint  or  guidance.  "Nature  is  at  her  best,"  he  ex- 
plained, "when  you  do  not  try  to  exploit  her.  Compare 
wild  strawberries  and  wild  asparagus  with  the  truck  the 
farmers  give  you.  Is  wisteria  useful?  What  equals  the 
color  of  the  judas-tree  in  bloom?  Do  fruit  blossoms, 
utilitarian  embryo,  compare  for  a  minute  with  real  flow- 
ers? Just  look  at  all  these  flowers,  bom  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  expressing  themselves!"  All  the  while  we 
were  sniffing  orange-blossoms.  I  tried  in  vain  to  get  his 
honest  opinion  on  horse-chestnut  blossoms  as  compared 
[6] 


GRASSE 

with  apples  and  peaches  and  apricots.  I  called  his  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  the  ailanthus  lives  only  to  express 
itself,  while  the  maple  gives  sugar.  But  you  can  never 
argue  with  the  Artist  when  he  is  on  the  theme  of  beauty 
for  beauty's  sake. 

From  the  fairyland  of  the  valley  we  came  suddenly 
upon  the  Grasse  railway  station,  from  which  a  funiculaire 
ascends  to  the  city  far  above.  Thankful  for  our  carriage, 
we  continued  to  mount  by  a  road  that  had  to  curve  sharply 
at  every  hundred  yards.  We  passed  between  villas  with 
pergolas  of  ramblers  and  wisteria  until  we  found  our- 
selves in  the  upper  part  of  the  city  without  having  gone 
through  the  city  at  all. 

We  got  out  at  the  promenade,  where  a  marvelous  view 
of  the  Mediterranean  from  Antibes  to  Theoule  lies  before 
you.  The  old  town  falls  down  the  mountain-side  from 
the  left  of  the  promenade.  We  started  along  a  street  that 
seemed  to  slide  down  towards  the  cathedral,  the  top  of 
whose  belfry  hardly  reaches  the  level  of  the  promenade. 
Before  we  had  gone  a  block,  we  learned  that  the  flowers 
through  which  we  had  passed  were  not  blooming  for  pure 
joy.  Like  many  things  in  this  dreary  world  of  ours, 
they  were  being  cultivated  for  money's  sake  and  not  for 
beauty's  sake.  Grasse  lives  from  those  flowers  in  the 
valley  below.  We  had  started  to  look  for  quaint  houses. 
From  one  of  the  first  doors  in  the  street  came  forth  an 
odor  that  made  us  think  of  the  type  of  woman  who  calls 
herself  "a  lady."  I  learned  early  in  life  at  the  barber's 
that  a  little  bit  of  scent  goes  too  far,  and  some  women 
[7] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


in  public  places  who  pass  you  fragrantly  do  not  allow 
that  lesson  to  be  forgotten.  Is  not  lavender  the  only  scent 
in  the  world  that  does  not  lose  by  an  overdose  ? 

The  Artist  would  not  enter.  His  eye  had  caught  a 
fourteenth-century  cul-de-sac,  and  I  knew  that  he  was 
good  for  an  hour.  I  hesitated.  The  vista  of  the  street 
ahead  brought  more  attraction  to  my  eye  than  the  indi- 
cation of  the  perfume-factory  to  my  nose.  But  there 
would  still  be  time  for  the  street,  and  in  the  acquisition 
of  knowledge  one  must  not  falter.  I  knew  only  that  per- 
fumes were  made  from  flowers.  But  so  was  honey! 
What  was  the  difference  in  the  process?  Visiting  per- 
fumeries is  evidently  "the  thing  to  do"  in  Grasse.  For 
I  was  greeted  cordially,  and  given  immediately  a  guide, 
who  assured  me  that  she  would  show  me  all  over  the  place 
and  that  it  was  no  trouble  at  all. 

Why  is  it  that  some  of  the  most  delicate  things  are  asso- 
ciated with  the  pig,  who  is  himself  far  from  delicate? 
However  much  we  may  shudder  at  the  thought  of  soused 
pigs'  feet  and  salt  pork  and  Rocky  Mountain  fried  ham 
swimming  in  grease,  we  find  bacon  the  most  appetizing 
of  breakfast  dishes,  and  if  cold  boiled  ham  is  cut  thin 
enough  nothing  is  more  dainty  for  sandwiches.  Lard 
per  se  is  unpleasant,  but  think  of  certain  things  cooked  in 
lard,  and  the  unrivaled  golden  brown  of  them !  Pigskin 
is  as  recherche  as  snakeskin.  The  pig  greets  us  at  the 
beginning  of  the  day  when  we  slip  our  wallet  into  our 
coat  or  fasten  on  our  wrist-watch,  and  again  when  we  go 
in  to  breakfast.  But  is  it  known  that  he  is  responsible 
[8] 


"His    eye    had    caught    a    fourteenth-century    cul-de-sac" 


GRASSE 

for  the  most  exquisite  of  scents  of  milady's  boudoir? 
For  hundreds  of  years  ways  of  extracting  the  odor  of 
flowers  were  tried.  Success  never  came  until  someone 
discovered  that  pig  fat  is  the  best  absorbent  of  the  bouquet 
of  fresh  flowers. 

Room  after  room  in  the  perfume  factory  is  filled  with 
tubs  of  pig  grease.  Fresh  flowers  are  laid  inside  every 
morning  for  weeks,  the  end  of  the  treatment  coming  only 
with  the  end  of  the  season  of  the  particular  flower  in 
question.  In  some  cases  it  is  continued  for  three  months. 
The  grease  is  then  boiled  in  alcohol.  The  liquid,  strained, 
is  your  scent.  The  solid  substance  left  makes  scented 
soap.  Immediately  after  cooling,  it  is  drawn  off  directly 
into  wee  bottles,  the  glass  stoppers  are  covered  with  white 
chamois  skin,  and  the  labels  pasted  on. 

I  noticed  a  table  of  bottles  labeled  eau-de-cologne. 
"Surely  this  is  now  eau-de-liege  in  France,"  I  remarked. 
"Are  not  German  names  taboo  ?" 

My  guide  answered  seriously :  "We  have  tried  our  best 
here  and  in  every  perfumery  in  France.  But  dealers  tell 
us  that  they  cannot  sell  eau-de-liege^  even  though  they 
assure  their  customers  that  it  is  exactly  the  same  product, 
and  explain  the  patriotic  reason  for  the  change  of  name. 
Once  we  launched  a  new  perfume  that  made  a  big  hit. 
Afterwards  we  discovered  that  we  had  named  it  from 
the  wrong  flower.  But  could  we  correct  the  mistake? 
It  goes  today  by  the  wrong  name  all  over  the  world." 

I  was  glad  to  get  into  the  open  air  again,  and  started 
to  walk  along  the  narrow  Rue  Droite — which  makes  a 
[9] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


curve  every  hundred  feet! — to  find  the  Artist.  I  had 
seen  enough  of  Grasse's  industry.  Now  I  was  free  to 
wander  at  will  through  the  maze  of  streets  of  the  old 
town.  But  the  law  of  the  Persians  follows  that  of  the 
Medes.  Half  a  dozen  urchins  spied  me  coming  out  of 
the  perfumery,  and  my  doom  was  sealed.  They  an- 
nounced that  they  would  show  me  the  way  to  the  con- 
fectionery. I  might  have  refused  to  enter  the  per- 
fumery. But,  having  entered,  there  was  no  way  of  es- 
caping the  confectionery.  I  resigned  myself  to  the  in- 
evitable. It  was  by  no  means  uninteresting,  however, — 
the  half  hour  spent  watching  violets,  orange  blossoms 
and  rose  petals  dancing  in  cauldrons  of  boiling  sugar, 
fanned  dry  on  screens,  and  packed  with  candied  fruits 
in  wooden  boxes  for  America.  And  I  had  followed  the 
flowers  of  Grasse  to  their  destination. 

The  Artist  had  finished  his  cul-de-sac.  I  knew  that 
to  find  him  I  had  only  to  continue  along  the  Rue  Droite 
to  the  first  particularly  appealing  side  street.  He  would 
be  up  that  somewhere.  The  Artist  is  no  procrastinator. 
He  takes  his  subjects  when  he  finds  them.  The  build- 
ings of  the  Rue  Droite  are  medieval  from  rez-de- 
chaussce  to  cornice.  The  sky  was  a  narrow  curved  slit 
of  blue  and  gray,  not  as  wide  as  the  street ;  for  the  houses 
seemed  to  lean  towards  one  another,  and  here  and  there 
roofs  rubbed  edges.  Sidewalks  would  have  prevented 
the  passage  of  horse-drawn  vehicles,  so  there  were  none. 
The  Rue  Droite  is  the  principal  shopping-street  of  Grasse. 
But  shoppers  cannot  loiter  indefinitely  before  windows. 

[10] 


GRASSE 

All  pedestrians  must  be  agile.  When  you  hear  the  Hue! 
of  a  driver,  you  must  take  refuge  in  a  doorSvay  or  run 
the  risk  of  axle-grease  and  mud.  Twentieth-century 
merchandise  stares  out  at  you  from  either  side — Paris 
hats  and  gowns,  American  boots,  typewriters,  sewing- 
machines,  phonographs,  pianos.  One  of  the  oldest  cor- 
ner buildings,  which  looks  as  if  it  needed  props  im- 
mediately to  save  you  from  being  caught  by  a  falling 
wall,  is  the  emporium  of  enamel  bathtubs  and  stationary 
washstands,  with  shining  nickel  spigots  labeled  "Hot" 
and  "Cold."  These  must  be  intended  for  the  villas  of 
the  environs,  for  surely  no  home  in  this  old  town  could 
house  a  bathroom.  Where  would  the  hot  water  and 
cold  water  come  from?  And  where  would  it  go  after 
you  opened  the  waste-pipe? 

But  there  are  sewers,  or  at  least  drains,  on  the  hill- 
side. Grasse  has  progressed  beyond  the  gare-a-V eau 
stage  of  municipal  civilization.  Before  your  eyes  is  the 
evidence  that  you  no  longer  have  to  listen  for  that  cry, 
and  duck  the  pot  or  pail  emptied  from  an  upper  window. 
Pipes,  with  branches  to  the  windows,  come  down  the 
sides  of  the  houses.  They  are  of  generous  size,  as  in 
cities  of  northern  countries  where  much  snow  lies  on 
the  roofs.  Since  wall-angles  are  many,  the  pipes  gen- 
erally find  a  place  in  corners.  They  do  not  obtrude. 
They  do  not  suggest  zinc  or  tin.  They  were  painted  a 
mud-gray  color  a  long  time  ago. 

After  lunch,  we  strolled  along  the  Boulevard  du  Jeu- 
de-Ballon,  the  tramway  street.  In  old  French  towns,  the 
[II] 


RIVIERA  TO^VNS 


words  boulevard  and  tramway  are  generally  anathema. 
They  suggest  the  poor  imitation  of  Paris,  both  in  archi- 
tecture and  animation,  of  a  street  outside  the  magic 
circle  of  the  unchanged  which  holds  the  charm  of  the 
town.  But  sometimes,  in  order  to  come  as  near  as  pos- 
sible to  the  center  of  population,  the  tramway  boulevard 
skirts  the  fortifications  of  the  medieval  city,  or  is  built 
upon  their  emplacement.  It  is  this  way  at  Grasse.  One 
side  of  the  Boulevard  du  Jeu-de-Ballon  is  modem  and 
commonplace.  The  other  side  preserves  in  part  the 
buildings  of  past  ages.  Here  and  there  a  bit  of  tower 
remains.  No  side  street  breaks  the  line.  You  go  down 
into  the  city  through  an  occasional  arched  passage. 

We  stopped  for  coffee  at  the  Garden-Bar,  on  the 
modem  side  of  the  boulevard.  The  curious  hodge-podge 
opposite,  which  houses  the  Restaurant  du  Cheval  Blanc 
and  the  Cafe  du  Globe,  had  caught  the  Artist's  eye.  The 
building,  or  group  of  buildings,  is  six  stories  high,  with 
a  sky-line  that  reflects  the  range  of  mountains  under 
which  Grasse  nestles.  Windows  of  different  sizes, 
placed  without  symmetry  or  alignment,  do  not  even 
harmonize  with  the  roof  above  them.  Probably  there 
was  originally  a  narrow  house  rising  directly  above  the 
door  of  the  Cheval  Blanc.  When  the  stmcture  was 
widened,  upper  floors  or  single  rooms  were  built  on  ad 
libittmi.  The  windows  give  the  clew  to  this  evolution, 
for  the  wall  has  been  plastered  and  whitewashed  uni- 
formly to  the  vndth.  of  over  a  hundred  feet,  and  there 
is  only  one  entrance  on  the  ground  floor.     Working 

[12] 


GRASSE 

out  the  staircases  and  floor  levels  is  a  puzzle  for  an 
architect.  We  did  not  even  start  to  try  to  solve  it. 
The  Artist's  interest  was  in  the  "subject,"  and  mine  in 
the  story  the  building  told  of  an  age  when  man's  in- 
dividual needs  influenced  his  life  more  strongly  than  they 
do  now.  We  think  of  the  progress  of  civilization  in  the 
terms  of  combination,  organization,  community  interest, 
the  centralized  state.  We  have  created  a  machine  to 
serve  us,  and  have  become  servants  of  the  machine. 
When  we  thank  God  unctuously  that  we  live  not  as  our 
ancestors  lived  and  as  the  "uncivilized"  live  today,  we 
are  displaying  the  decay  of  our  mental  faculties.  Is  it 
the  Arab  at  his  tent  door,  looking  with  dismay  and  dread 
at  the  approach  of  the  Bagdad  Railway,  who  is  the  fool, 
or  we? 

Backed  up  at  right  angles  to  the  stoop  of  the  Cheval 
Blanc  was  a  grandfather  omnibus,  which  certainly  dated 
from  the  Second  Empire.  Its  sign  read:  CRASSE- 
ST. CEZAIRE.  SERVICE  DE  LA  POSTE.  The 
canvas  boot  had  the  curve  of  ocean  waves.  A  pert 
little  hood  stuck  out  over  the  driver's  seat.  The  pair  of 
lean  horses — one  black,  the  other  white — stood  with 
noses  turned  towards  the  tramway  rails.  The  Artist  was 
still  gazing  skylineward.  I  grasped  his  arm,  and  brought 
his  eyes  to  earth.  No  word  was  needed.  He  fumbled 
for  his  pencil.  But  to  our  horror  the  driver  had 
mounted,  and  was  reaching  for  the  reins.  I  got  across 
the  street  just  in  time  to  save  the  picture.  Holding  out 
cigars  to  the  driver  and  a  soldier  beside  him  on  the  box, 
[13] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


I  begged  them  to  wait — please  to  wait — just  five  minutes, 
five  little  minutes. 

"There  is  no  place  for  another  passenger.  We  are 
full  inside,"  he  remonstrated. 

But  he  had  dropped  the  reins  to  strike  a  match.  In 
the  moment  thus  gained,  I  got  out  a  franc,  and  pressed 
it  into  his  hand. 

"Your  coach,  my  friend,"  I  said,  "is  unique  in  all 
France.  The  coffee  of  that  celebrated  artist  yonder 
sitting  at  the  terrace  of  the  Garden-Bar  is  getting  cold 
while  he  immortalizes  the  Grasse-St.  Cezaire  service. 
In  the  interest  of  art  and  history,  I  beg  of  you  to  delay 
your  departure  ten  little  minutes." 

The  soldier  had  found  the  cigar  to  his  liking.  "A 
quarter  of  an  hour  will  do  no  harm  at  all,"  he  announced 
positively,  getting  down  from  his  place. 

The  driver  puffed  and  growled.  "We  have  our 
journey  to  make,  and  the  hour  of  departure  is  one-thirty. 
If  it  is  not  too  long — fifteen  minutes  at  the  most."  He 
pocketed  the  franc  less  reluctantly  than  he  had  spoken. 

The  soldier  crossed  the  boulevard  with  me.  Know- 
ing how  to  appreciate  a  good  thing,  he  became  our  ally 
as  soon  as  he  had  looked  at  the  first  lines  of  the  sketch. 
When  the  minutes  passed,  and  the  soldier  saw  that  the 
driver  was  growing  restless,  he  went  back  and  persuaded 
him  to  come  over  and  have  a  look  at  the  drawing.  This 
enabled  me  to  get  the  driver  tabled  before  a  tall  glass 
of  steaming  coffee  with  a  petit  verve. 

Soon  an  old  dame,  wearing  a  bonnet  that  antedated 
[14] 


'A    grandfather    omnibus,    which    dated    from    the 
Second   Empire" 


GRASSE 

the  coach,  stuck  out  her  head.  A  watch  was  in  her 
hand.  Surely  she  was  not  of  the  Midi.  Fearing  that 
she  might  influence  the  driver  disadvantageously  to  our 
interests,  I  went  to  inform  her  that  the  delay  was  un- 
avoidable. I  could  not  offer  her  a  cigar.  There  are 
never  any  bonbons  in  my  pocket.  So  I  thought  to  make 
a  speech. 

"All  my  excuses,"  I  explained,  "for  this  regrettable 
delay.  The  coach  in  which  you  are  seated — and  in  which 
in  a  very,  very  few  minutes  you  will  be  riding — belongs 
to  the  generation  before  yourself  and  me.  It  is  im- 
portant for  the  sake  of  history  as  well  as  art  that  the 
presence  in  Grasse  of  my  illustrious  artist  friend,  coin- 
cident with  the  St.  Cezaire  coach  before  the  door  of  the 
Cheval  Blanc,  be  seized  upon  to  secure  for  our  grand- 
children an  indelible  memory  of  travel  conditions  in  our 
day.     So  I  beg  indulgence." 

Two  schoolgirls  smothered  a  snicker.  There  was  a 
dangerous  glitter  in  the  old  dame's  eye.  She  did  not 
answer  me.  But  a  young  woman  raised  her  voice  in  a 
threat  to  have  the  driver  dismissed.  Enough  time  had 
been  gained.  The  Artist  signified  his  willingness  to  have 
the  mail  leave  now  for  St.  Cezaire. 

Off  went  the  coach,  white  horse  and  black  horse  clat- 
tering alternately  hoofs  that  would  gladly  have  remained 
longer  in  repose.  The  soldier  saluted.  The  driver 
grinned.  We  waved  to  the  old  woman  with  the  poke 
bonnet,  and  lifted  our  glasses  to  several  pretty  girls  who 
appeared  at  the  coach  door  for  the  first  time  in  order 
[IS] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


that  they  might  glare  at  us.  I  am  afraid  I  must  record 
that  it  was  to  glare.  Our  friendly  salutation  was  not 
answered.  But  we  had  the  sketch.  That  was  what 
really  mattered. 

We  were  half  an  hour  late  at  the  rendezvous  with  our 
carriage  man  for  the  return  journey  to  Cannes.  But 
he  had  lunched  well,  and  did  not  seem  to  mind.  Ameri- 
cans were  scarce  this  season,  and  fortes  pourhoires  few 
and  far  between.  On  the  Riviera — as  elsewhere — you 
benefit  by  your  fellow-countrymen's  generosity  in  the 
radiant  courtesy  and  good  nature  of  those  who  serve 
you  until  you  come  to  pay  your  bill.  Then  you  think 
you  could  have  got  along  pretty  well  with  less  smiles. 
We  knew  that  our  man  would  not  risk  his  pourboire  by 
opposing  us,  so  we  suggested  with  all  confidence  that  he 
drive  round  the  curves  alone  and  meet  us  below  by  the 
railway  station  in  "half  an  hour."  We  wanted  to  go 
straight  down  through  the  city.  The  cocher  looked  at 
his  watch  and  thought  a  minute.  He  had  already  seen 
the  Artist  stop  suddenly  and  stay  glued  on  one  spot,  like 
a  cat  patiently  waiting  to  spring  upon  a  bird.  He  had 
seen  how  often  oblivion  to  time  comes.  The  lesser  of 
two  evils  was  to  keep  us  in  sight.  So  he  proposed  with 
a  sigh  what  we  could  never  have  broached  to  him.  "Per- 
haps we  can  drive  down  through  the  city — why  not?" 
"Why  not?"  we  answered  joyously  in  unison,  as  we 
jumped  into  the  victoria. 

Down  is  down  in  Grasse.  I  think  our  cocher  did  not 
realize  what  he  was  getting  into,  or  he  would  have  pre- 
[i6] 


GRASSE 

ferred  taking  his  chances  on  a  long  wait.  He  certainly 
did  not  know  his  way  through  the  old  town.  He  asked 
at  every  corner,  each  time  more  desperately,  as  we  be 
came  engaged  in  a  maze  of  narrow  streets,  which  were 
made  before  the  days  of  victorias.  There  was  no  way 
of  turning.  We  had  to  go  down — ^precipitously  down. 
With  brake  jammed  tight,  and  curses  that  echoed  from 
wall  to  wall  and  around  corners,  the  cocher  held  the 
reins  to  his  chest.  The  horses,  gently  pushed  forward, 
much  against  their  will,  by  the  weight  of  the  carriage, 
planted  all  fours  firm  and  slid  over  the  stones  that  cen- 
turies of  sabots  and  hand-carts  had  worn  smooth.  The 
noise  brought  everyone  to  windows  and  doors,  and  the 
sight  kept  them  there.  Tourist  victorias  did  not  coast 
through  Grasse  every  day.  Advice  was  freely  proffered. 
The  angrier  our  cocher  became  the  more  frequently  he 
was  told  to  put  on  his  brake  and  hold  tight  to  the  reins. 

After  half  an  hour  we  came  out  at  the  funicular  be- 
side the  railway  station. 

"How  delightful,  and  how  fortunate!"  exclaimed  the 
Artist.  "That  certainly  was  a  short  cut.  We  have 
saved  several  kilometers!" 

I  thought  the  cocher  would  explode.  But  he  merely 
nodded.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  say  that  he  did  not  under- 
stand the  Artist's  French  for  "short  cut."  Perhaps  he 
thought  best  to  save  all  comment  until  the  hour  of 
reckoning  arrived.  He  did  not  need  to.  The  ride  back 
to  the  sea  was  through  the  fairyland  of  the  morning 
climb,  enhanced  a  thousandfold,  as  all  fairylands  are, 
[17] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


by  the  magic  of  the  twihght.  One  never  can  make  it  up 
to  hired  horses  for  their  work  and  wilHngness  and 
patience.  But  we  did  Hve  up  to  local  American  tradi- 
tion in  regard  to  the  cocher. 


[i8] 


CAGNES 


[19] 


CHAPTER  II 

Cagnes 


AMERICAN  and  English  visitors  to  the  Riviera 
soon  come  to  know  Cagnes  by  name.  It  is  a  chal- 
lenge to  their  ability  to  pronounce  French — a  challenge 
that  must  be  accepted,  if  you  are  in  the  region  of 
Grasse  or  Nice  or  Antibes.  Two  distinct  tramway  lines 
and  several  roads  lead  from  Grasse  to  Cannes  and 
Cagnes.  Unless  you  are  very  careful,  you  may  find 
yourself  upon  the  wrong  route.  Once  on  the  Cagnes 
tramway,  or  well  engaged  upon  the  road  to  Cagnes,  when 
you  had  meant  to  go  to  Cannes,  the  mistake  takes  hours 
to  retrieve.  At  Nice,  chauffeurs  and  cockers  love  to 
cheat  you  by  the  confusion  of  these  two  names.  You 
bargain  for  the  long  trip  to  Cannes,  and  are  attracted  by 
the  reasonable  price  quoted.  In  a  very  short  time  you 
are  at  Cagnes.  The  vehicle  stops.  Impossible  to  rectify 
your  mispronunciation  without  a  substantial  increase  of 
the  original  sum  of  the  bargain.     Antibes  is  between 

[21] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


Cagnes  and  Cannes.  Cagnes  is  nearer,  and  it  is  always 
to  Cannes  that  you  want  to  go.  Spell  the  name,  or  write 
it  on  a  piece  of  paper,  if  you  are  to  be  sure  that  you 
will  be  taken  west  instead  of  east. 

The  place,  as  well  as  the  name,  is  familiar  to  all 
travelers — from  a  distance.  Whether  you  move  by  train, 
by  tramway  or  by  automobile,  you  see  the  city  set  on  a 
hill  between  Cannes  and  Nice.  But  express  trains  do  not 
stop.  The  tramway  passes  some  distance  from  the  old 
town,  and  prospect  of  the  walk  and  climb  is  not  allur- 
ing to  the  tramway  tourist,  whose  goal  is  places  impor- 
tant enough  to  have  a  map  in  Baedeker,  or  a  double- 
starred  church  or  view.  If  motorists  are  not  in  a  hurry 
to  get  to  a  good  lunch,  their  chauffeurs  are.  You  signal 
to  stop,  and  express  a  desire  to  go  up  into  Cagnes.  The 
hired  chauffeur  declares  emphatically  that  it  cannot  be 
done.  If  you  do  not  believe  him,  he  drives  you  to  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  and  you  see  with  your  own  eyes.  Re- 
gretfully you  pass  on  to  towns  that  are  plus  pratiques. 
More  than  once  I  had  done  this :  and  I  might  have  done 
it  again  had  not  the  Artist  come  to  the  Riviera. 

We  were  afoot  (the  best  way  to  travel  and  see  things)' 
on  an  April  Sunday,  and  stopped  for  lunch  at  the  restau- 
rant opposite  the  Cagnes  railway  station.  The  Artist 
was  not  hungry.  While  I  ate  he  went  out  "to  find  what 
sort  of  a  subject  the  ensemble  of  the  city  on  the  hill 
over  there  makes."  He  returned  in  time  for  cheese  and 
fruit,  with  a  sketch  of  Cagnes  that  made  the  waitress 
run  inside  to  get  better  apples  and  bananas.     She  insisted 

[22] 


CAGNES 

that  we  would  be  rewarded  for  a  climb  up  to  the  old 
town,  and  offered  to  keep  our  coats  and  kits. 

Along  the  railway  and  tramway  and  motor-road  a 
modern  Cagnes  of  villas  and  hotels  and  pensions,  with 
their  accompaniment  of  shops  and  humbler  habitations, 
has  grown  for  a  mile  or  more,  and  stretched  out  across 
the  railway  to  the  sea.  Two  famous  French  artists  live 
here,  and  many  Parisians  and  foreigners.  There  is  also 
a  wireless  station.  All  this  shuts  off  from  the  road  the 
town  on  the  hill.  Unless  you  had  seen  it  from  the 
open  country,  before  coming  into  the  modern  Cagnes, 
you  would  not  have  known  that  there  was  a  hill  and  an 
old  city.     It  was  not  easy  for  us  to  find  the  way. 

Built  for  legs  and  nothing  else,  the  thoroughfare  up 
through  Cagnes  is  a  street  that  can  be  called  straight 
and  steep  and  stiff,  the  adjectives  coming  to  you  without 
your  seeking  for  alliteration,  just  as  instinctively  as 
you  take  off  your  hat  and  out  your  handkerchief. 

"No  livery  stable  in  this  town — come  five  francs  on 
it,"  said  the  Artist. 

"Against  five  francs  that  there  are  no  men  with  a 
waistline  exceeding  forty-five  inches!"  I  answered,  feel- 
ingly and  knowingly. 

But  we  soon  became  so  fascinated  by  our  transition 
from  the  twentieth  century  to  the  fifteenth  that  we  for- 
got we  were  climbing.  "Effort  is  a  matter  of  mental  atti- 
tude. Nothing  in  the  world  is  hard  when  you  are  inter- 
ested in  doing  it. 

Half  wav  and  half  an  hour  up,  we  paused  to  take  our 
[23] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


bearings.  The  line  of  houses,  each  leaning  on  its  next 
lower  neighbor,  was  broken  here  by  a  high  garden  wall, 
from  which  creepers  were  overhanging  the  street,  with 
their  fresh  spring  tendrils  waving  and  curling  above  our 
heads.  There  was  an  odor  of  honeysuckle  and  orange- 
blossoms,  and  the  blood-red  branch  of  a  judas-tree 
pushed  its  way  through  the  green  and  yellow.  The 
canyon  of  the  street,  widening  below  us,  ended  in  a  rich 
meadowland,  dotted  with  villas  and  trees.  Beyond,  the 
Mediterranean  rose  to  the  horizon.  While  the  Artist 
was  "taking  it,"  the  usual  crowd  gathered  around :  chil- 
dren whose  lack  of  bashfulness  indicated  that  many  city 
people  were  here  for  the  season  or  that  tourists  did  find 
their  way  up  to  Cagnes;  women  eager  to  ask  how  the 
English  felt  about  the  war  and  how  long  we  thought  it 
was  going  to  last;  old  men  proud  to  tell  you  that  their 
city  was  the  most  interesting,  because  the  most  ancient, 
on  the  Riviera. 

When  we  resumed  our  climb,  the  whole  town  seemed 
to  be  going  our  way.  Sunday-best  and  prayer-books 
gave  the  reason.  Just  as  we  were  coming  to  the  top, 
our  street  made  its  first  turn,  a  sharp  one,  and  in  the 
bend  was  a  church  tower  with  a  wee  door  under  it. 
Houses  crowded  closely  around  it.  The  tower  was  the 
only  indication  of  the  church.  An  abbe  was  standing 
by  the  door,  calling  in  the  acolytes  and  choir  boys  who 
were  playing  tag  in  the  street.  The  Artist  stopped  short. 
I  went  up  to  the  abbe,  who  by  features  and  accent  was 
evidently  a  Breton  far  from  home. 
[24] 


"Beyond,    the    Mediterranean    rose    to    the    horizon' 


CAGNES 


"Do  any  fat  men  live  up  here?"  I  asked. 

"Only  one,"  he  answered  promptly,  with  a  hearty 
laugh.  "The  cure  has  gone  to  the  war,  and  last  month 
the  bishop  sent  a  man  to  help  me  who  weighs  over  a 
hundred  kilos.  We  have  another  church  below  in  the 
new  town,  and  there  are  services  in  both,  morning  and 
afternoon.  Low  mass  here  at  six,  and  high  masses  there 
at  eight  and  here  at  ten.  Vespers  here  at  three  and  there 
at  four-thirty.  On  the  second  Sunday  my  coadjutor 
said  he  was  going  to  leave  at  the  end  of  the  month.  So, 
after  next  week,  there  will  be  no  fat  man.  Unless  you 
have  come  to  Cagnes  to  stay?"  The  abbe  twinkled  and 
chuckled. 

"It  is  not  to  laugh  at,"  broke  in  an  oldest  inhabitant 
who  had  overheard.  "We  live  from  ten  to  twenty  years 
longer  than  the  people  of  the  plain,  who  have  railways 
and  tramways  and  carriages  and  autos  right  to  their 
very  doors.  We  get  the  mountain  air  from  the  Alps 
and  the  sea  air  from  the  Mediterranean  uncontaminated. 
It  blows  into  every  house  without  passing  through  as 
much  as  a  single  neighbor's  courtyard.  But  our  long 
lease  on  life  is  due  principally  to  having  to  climb  this 
hill.  Stiffness,  rheumatism — we  don't  know  what  it 
means,  and  we  stay  fit  right  to  the  very  end.  Look  at 
me.  I  was  a  grown  man  when  people  first  began  to 
know  who  Garibaldi  was  in  Nice.  We  formed  a  corps 
of  volunteers  right  here  in  this  town  when  Mazzini's 
republic  was  proclaimed  to  go  to  defend  Rome  from 
the  worst  enemies  of  Italian  unity,  those  Vatican — 
[25] 


RIVIERA  TOWIS^S 


But  I  beg  M.  le  Cure's  pardon!  In  those  days  of  hot 
youth  the  church,  you  know,  did  not  mean — " 

The  abbe  twinkled  and  chuckled  again,  and  patted  the 
old  man's  shoulder  affectionately.  "When  you  did  not 
follow  Briand  ten  years  ago,  it  proved  that  half  a  cen- 
tury had  wrought  a  happy  change.  I  understand  any- 
way. I  am  a  Breton  that  has  taken  root,  as  everyone 
here  does,  in  this  land  of  lofty  mountains  and  deep 
valleys,  of  wind  and  sun,  of  sea  and  snow.  Mental  as 
well  as  physical  acclimatization  comes.  The  spirit,  the 
life,  the  very  soul  of  the  Risorgimento  had  nothing 
Italian  in  it.  It  was  of  Piedmont  and  Savoy  and  the 
Riviera — a  product  of  the  Alpes  Maritimes." 

I  would  have  listened  longer.  But  the  bell  above  us 
began  to  ring,  several  peals  first,  and  then  single  strokes, 
each  more  insistent  than  the  last.  The  abbe  was  still  in 
the  Garibaldi  mood,  and  the  volunteer  of  '49  and  I  were 
in  sympathy.  He  knew  it,  and  refused  to  hear  the  sum- 
mons to  vespers.  But  out  of  the  door  came  a  girl  who 
could  break  a  spell  of  the  past,  because  she  was  able 
to  weave  one  of  the  present.  She  dominated  us  im- 
mediately. She  would  not  have  had  to  say  a  word.  A 
hymn  book  was  in  her  hand,  opened  at  the  page  where 
she  intended  it  to  stay  open.  "This  afternoon,  M. 
I'Abbe,  we  shall  sing  this,"  she  stated. 

"No,  we  cannot  do  it!"  he  protested  rather  feebly. 
"You  see,  the  encyclical  of  the  Holy  Father  enjoins  the 
Gregorian,  and  I  think  the  boys  can  sing  it — " 

The  organist  interrupted:  "You  certainly  know,  M. 
[26] 


C  AGNES 

I'Abbe,  that  we  cannot  have  decent  singing  for  the  visits 
to  the  stations,  unless  the  big  girls,  whom  I  have  been 
training  now  for  two  months — " 

"But  we  must  obey  the  Papal  injunction.  Mademoiselle 
Simone,"  put  in  the  priest  still  more  mildly. 

Mademoiselle  Simone's  eyes  danced  mockingly,  and 
her  moue  confirmed  beyond  a  doubt  the  revelation  of 
clothes  and  accent.  Here  was  a  twentieth-century 
Parisienne  in  conflict  with  a  reactionary  rule  of  the 
church  in  a  setting  where  turning  back  the  hands  of  the 
clock  would  have  seemed  the  natural  thing  to  do. 

"Pure  nonsense!"  was  her  disrespectful  answer. 
"With  all  the  young  men  away,  the  one  thing  to  do  is 
to  make  the  music  go." 

I  had  to  speak  in  order  to  be  noticed.  "So  even  in 
Cagnes  the  young  girls  know  how  to  give  orders  to  M. 
le  Cure  ?  The  Holy  Father's  encyclical — "  I  could  stop 
without  finishing  the  sentence,  for  I  had  succeeded. 
The  dancing  eyes  and  the  moue  now  included  me. 

"M.  I'Abbe,  it  is  time  for  the  service,"  she  said  firmly. 
"If  this  Anglais  comes  in,  he  will  see  that  I  have  reason." 

She  disappeared.  The  abbe  looked  after  her  indul- 
gently, shrugged  his  shoulders,  with  the  palms  of  his 
hands  spread  heavenward,  and  followed  her. 

In  the  meantime  the  worshipers,  practically  all  of 
them  women  and  children,  had  been  turning  corners 
above  and  below.  I  made  the  round  of  the  group  of 
buildings,  and  saw  only  little  doors  here  and  there  at 
different  levels.  There  was  no  portal,  no  large  main 
[27] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


entrance.  When  I  came  back  to  the  bend  of  the  road, 
the  music  had  started.  I  was  about  to  enter  the  tower 
door — Mademoiselle  Simone's! — when  I  saw  the  Artist 
put  up  his  pencil.  The  service  would  last  for  some  time, 
so  I  joined  him,  and  we  continued  to  mount. 

Above  the  church  tower,  steps  led  to  the  very  top  of 
the  hill,  which  was  crowned  by  a  chateau.  Skirting  its 
walls,  we  came  to  an  open  place.  On  the  side  of  the 
hill  looking  towards  the  Alps,  a  spacious  terrace  had 
been  built  out  far  beyond  the  chateau  wall.  Along  the 
parapet  were  a  number  of  primitive  tables  and  benches. 
The  tiny  cafe  from  which  they  were  served  was  at  the 
end  of  a  group  of  nondescript  buildings  that  had  prob- 
ably grown  up  on  a  ruined  bastion  of  the  chateau. 
Seated  at  one  of  these  tables,  you  see  the  Mediterranean 
from  Nice  to  Antibes,  with  an  occasional  steamer  and 
a  frequent  sailing-vessel,  the  Vintimille  rapide  (noting 
its  speed  by  the  white  engine  smoke),  one  tramway  climb- 
ing by  Villeneuve-Loubet  towards  Grasse  and  another 
by  Saint-Paul-du-Var  to  Vence,  and  more  than  a  semi- 
circle of  the  horizon  lost  in  the  Alps. 

The  Sunday  afternoon  animation  in  the  pla^e  was 
wholly  masculine.  No  woman  was  visible  except  the 
white-coi fifed  grandmother  who  served  the  drinks.  The 
war  was  not  the  only  cause  of  the  necessity  of  Made- 
moiselle Simone's  opposition  to  antiphonal  Gregorian 
singing.  I  fear  that  the  lack  of  male  voices  in  the 
vesper  service  is  a  chronic  one,  and  that  Mademoiselle 
Simone's  attempt  to  put  life  into  the  service  would  have 
[28] 


CAGNES 

been  equally  justifiable  before  the  tragic  period  oi  la 
guerre.  For  the  men  of  Cagnes  were  engrossed  in  the 
favorite  sport  of  the  Midi,  jeu  aux  boules.  I  have  never 
seen  a  more  serious  group  of  Tartarins.  From  Mon- 
sieur le  Maire  to  cobbler  and  blacksmith,  all  were  work- 
ing very  hard.  A  little  ball  that  could  be  covered  in 
one's  fist  is  thrown  out  on  the  common  by  the  winner 
of  the  last  game.  The  players  line  up,  each  with  a 
handful  of  larger  wooden  balls  about  the  size  and  weight 
of  those  that  are  used  in  croquet.  You  try  to  roll  or 
throw  your  balls  near  the  little  one  that  serves  as  goal. 
Simple,  you  exclaim.  Yes,  but  not  so  simple  as  golf. 
For  the  hazard  of  the  ground  is  changed  with  each  game. 
Interest  in  what  people  around  you  are  doing  is  the 
most  compelling  interest  in  the  world.  Train  yourself 
to  be  oblivious  to  your  neighbor's  actions  and  your 
neighbor's  thoughts,  on  the  ground  that  curiosity  is  the 
sign  of  the  vulgarian  and  indifference  the  sign  of  the 
gentleman,  and  you  succeed  in  making  yourself  colossally 
stupid.  Here  lies  the  weakest  point  in  Anglo-Saxon 
culture.  The  players  quickly  won  me  from  the  view. 
Watch  one  man  at  play,  and  you  can  read  his  character. 
He  is  an  open  book  before  you.  Watch  a  number  of 
men  at  play,  and  you  are  shown  the  general  masculine 
traits  of  human  nature.  Generosity,  decision,  alertness, 
deftness,  energy,  self-control  —  meanness,  hesitation, 
slowness,  awkwardness,  laziness,  impatience:  you  have 
these  characteristics  and  all  the  shades  between  them. 
The  humblest  may  have  admirable  and  wholesome  virtues 
[29] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


lacking  in  the  highest,  but  a  balance  of  them  all  weighs 
and  marks  one  Monsieur  le  Maire  or  the  stonebreaker 
on  the  road. 

The  councils  of  Generals  at  Verdun  were  not  taking 
more  seriously  today  the  problem  of  moving  their  men 
nearer  the  fortress  than  were  these  players  the  problem 
of  rolling  their  big  balls  near  the  little  ball.  Had  the 
older  men  been  the  only  group,  I  should  have  got  the 
idea  that  jeu  mix  boules  is  a  game  where  the  skill  is  all 
in  cautious  playing.  But  there  were  young  chasseurs 
alpins,  home  on  leave  from  the  front,  who  were  playing 
the  game  in  an  entirely  different  way.  Instead  of  mak- 
ing each  throw  as  if  the  destinies  of  the  world  were  at 
stake,  the  soldiers  played  fast  and  vigorously,  aiming 
rather  to  knock  the  opponent's  ball  away  from  a  coveted 
position  near  the  goal  than  to  reach  the  goal.  The 
older  men's  balls,  to  the  number  of  a  couple  of  dozen, 
clustered  around  the  goal  at  the  end  of  a  round.  Care- 
ful marking,  by  cane-lengths,  shoe-lengths  and  handker- 
chief-lengths preceded  agreement  as  to  the  winner.  At 
the  end  of  a  round  of  the  chasseurs  alpins,  two  or  three 
balls  remained :  the  rest  had  gone  wide  of  the  mark,  or 
had  been  knocked  many  feet  from  the  original  landing- 
place  by  a  successor's  throw.  During  half  an  hour  I 
did  not  see  the  young  men  measure  once.  The  winning 
throw  was  every  time  unmistakable. 

The  Artist  leaned  against  the  chateau  wall,  putting  it 
down.  The  thought  of  Mademoiselle  Simone,  playing 
the  organ,  came  to  me.  How  was  the  music  going?  I 
[30] 


CAGNES 


must  not  miss  that  service.  The  view  and  the  chateau 
and  the  jeu  mix  boules  no  longer  held  me.  Down  the 
steps  I  went,  and  entered  the  first  of  the  church  doors. 
It  was  on  the  upper  level,  and  took  me  into  the  gallery. 
I  was  surprised  to  find  so  large  a  church.  One  got  no 
idea  of  its  size  from  the  outside. 

The  daylight  was  all  from  above.  Although  only  mid- 
afternoon,  altar  and  chancel  candles  made  a  true  vesper 
atmosphere,  and  the  flickering  wicks  in  the  hanging 
lamps  gave  starlight.  This  is  as  it  should  be.  The  ap- 
peal of  a  ritualistic  service  is  to  the  mystical  in*  one's 
nature.  Jewels  and  embroideries,  gold  and  silver,  gor- 
geous robes,  rich  decorations,  pomp  and  splendor  repel 
in  broad  daylight;  candles  and  lamps  sputter  futilely; 
incense  nauseates :  for  the  still  small  voice  is  stifled,  and 
the  kingdom  is  of  this  world.  But  in  the  twilight,  what 
skeptic,  what  Puritan  resists  the  call  to  worship  of  the 
Catholic  ritual  ?  I  had  come  in  time  for  the  intercessory 
visit  to  the  stations  of  the  cross.  Priest  and  acolytes 
were  following  the  crucifix  from  the  chancel.  Banners 
waved.  Before  each  station  prayers  were  said  for  the 
success  of  France  and  for  the  protection  of  her  soldiers. 
While  the  procession  was  passing  from  station  to  station, 
the  girls  sang  their  hymn  in  French.  For  the  first  time 
since  I  had  been  in  the  Midi,  I  realized  that  the  shadow 
under  which  we  live  in  Paris  was  here,  too.  The 
trenches  were  not  far  away! 

When  the  service  was  over,  I  went  around  to  the  door 
imder  the  tower.  Of  course,  it  was  to  meet  the  abbe. 
[31] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


Still,  when  I  realize  that  I  had  missed  the  organist,  I 
was  disappointed.  The  abbe  soon  appeared  from  the 
sacristy.  I  gave  one  more  look  around  for  Mademoiselle 
Simone  while  he  was  explaining  that  he  had  just  twenty- 
minutes  before  it  was  necessary  to  start  down  to  the 
other  church,  but  that  it  was  long  enough  to  take  me 
through  the  Moorish  quarter.  Although  I  had  come  to 
Cagnes  to  see  the  old  town,  and  to  get  into  the  atmos- 
phere of  past  centuries,  I  must  confess  that  I  followed 
him  regretfully. 

The  houses  of  the  Moorish  quarter  are  built  into  the 
ancient  city  walls.  Baked  earth,  mixed  with  straw  and 
studded  with  cobblestones,  has  defied  eight  centuries. 
There  are  no  streets  wide  enough  for  carts,  for  they 
hark  back  to  the  days  when  donkeys  were  common 
carriers.  And  in  hill-towns  the  progressive  knowledge 
of  centuries  has  evolved  no  better  means  of  transport. 
You  pass  through  ruelles  where  outstretched  hands  can 
touch  the  houses  on  each  side.  Often  the  ruelle  is  like 
a  tunnel,  for  the  houses  are  built  right  over  it  on  arches, 
and  it  is  so  dark  that  you  cannot  see  in  front  of  you. 
The  abbe  assured  me  that  there  were  house  doors  all 
along  as  in  any  other  passage.  People  must  know  by 
instinct  where  to  turn  in  to  their  houses. 

When  the  abbe  left  me  to  go  to  his  lower  vesper  ser- 
vice, after  having  piloted  me  back  to  the  main  streets, 
I  decided  to  go  up  again  to  the  place  to  rejoin  the  Artist. 
But  under  an  old  buttonwood  tree,  which  almost  poked 
its  upper  branches  into  the  chateau  windows,  stood  Made- 
[32] 


'The  houses  of  the  Moorish  quarter  are  built   into  the  ancient 
city   walls" 


CAGNES ^^ 

moiselle  Simone,  waving  good-by  to  another  girl  who 
was  disappearing  around  the  corner  of  a  street  above. 
Her  aunt,  she  declared,  was  waiting  for  her  at  a  villa 
half-way  down  the  hill,  at  five.  Just  then  five  struck  ia 
the  clock-tower  behind  us. 

"Had  you  looked  up  before  you  spoke?"  I  asked. 

"Clocks  do  strike  conveniently,"  she  answered. 

Although  Mademoiselle  Simone  repulsed  firmly  my 
plea  that  she  become  my  guide  through  the  other  side 
of  the  town,  where  two  outlying  quarters,  the  abbe  had 
said,  contained  the  best  of  all  in  old  houses,  queer  streets 
and  an  ivy-covered  ruin  of  a  chapel,  she  lingered  to  talk 
under  the  buttonwood  tree  of  many  things  that  had 
nothing  to  do  with  Cagnes.  When  I  tried  to  persuade 
her  to  show  me  what  I  had  not  yet  seen,  on  the  ground 
that  I  had  made  the  climb  up  to  the  top  because  of 
my  interest  in  hill  cities  and  wanted  to  write  about 
Cagnes,  she  immediately  answered  that  she  would  not 
detain  me  for  the  world  and  made  a  move  to  keep  her 
rendezvous  with  the  aunt.  So  I  hastened  to  contradict 
myself,  and  assure  her  that  I  had  no  interest  whatever 
in  Cagnes,  that  I  was  stuck  here  waiting  for  the  Artist, 
who  would  come  only  with  the  fading  light. 

After  Mademoiselle  Simone  left  me  under  the  button- 
wood  tree,  I  thought  of  the  Artist.  He  had  finished 
and  was  smoking  over  a  glass  of  vermouth  at  one  of 
the  tables  by  the  parapet  of  the  place. 

"Great  town,"  he  said.  "Bully  stuff  here.  In  build- 
ings and  villagers  have  you  found  anything  as  fascinat- 
[33] 


RIVIERA  TOWKS 


ing  as  that  purple  and  red  on  the  mountain  snow  over 
there?     It  just  gets  the  last  sun,  the  very  last." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "but  neither  in  a  building  or  a 
villager  of  Cagnes.  There  is  a  Parisienne — "  And  I 
told  him  about  Mademoiselle  Simone.  He  was  silent, 
and  his  fingers  drummed  upon  the  table,  tipity-tap,  tipity- 
tap.     "Show  me  your  sketches,"  I  asked. 

"No,"  he  said  scathingly.  "No !  You  are  not  inter- 
ested in  sketches.  Nor  should  I  have  been,  had  you 
been  more  generous.     You  had  the  luck  in  Cagnes." 

The  prospect  of  a  trout  dinner  at  Villeneuve-Loubet 
took  us  rapidly  down  the  hill.  We  soon  passed  out 
of  the  fifteenth  century  into  the  twentieth.  Modem 
Cagnes,  with  its  clang  of  tramway  gong,  toot  of  loco- 
motive whistle,  honk-honk  of  motor  horn,  cafe  terraces 
crowded  with  Sunday  afternooners,  broad  sidewalks  and 
electric  lights  was  another  world.  But  it  was  our  world 
— and  Mademoiselle  Simone's.  That  is  why  coming 
back  into  it  from  the  hill  of  Cagnes  was  really  like  a 
cold  shower.  For  a  sense  of  refreshment  followed  im- 
mediately the  shock — and  stayed  with  us. 

The  hill  of  Cagnes  we  could  rave  about  enthusiastically 
because  we  did  not  have  to  go  back  there  and  live  there. 
It  will  be  "a  precious  memory,"  as  tourists  say,  precisely 
because  it  is  a  memory.  The  bird  in  a  cage  is  less  of  a 
prisoner  than  we  city  folk  of  the  modem  world.  For 
when  you  open  the  cage  door,  the  bird  will  fly  away 
and  not  come  back.  We  may  fly  away — ^but  we  do  come 
back,  and  the  sooner  the  better.  We  love  our  prisons. 
[34] 


CAGNES 


We  are  happy  (or  think  we  are,  which  is  the  same  thing) 
in  our  chains.  And  in  the  brief  time  that  we  are  a-wing, 
do  we  really  love  unusual  sights  and  novel  things?  In 
exploring,  is  not  our  greatest  joy  and  delight  in  finding 
something  familiar,  something  we  have  already  known, 
something  we  are  used  to?  An  appreciative  lover  and 
frequenter  of  grand  opera  once  said  to  me,  "  *The  Barber 
of  Seville'  is  my  favorite,  because  I  know  I  am  going  to 
have  the  treat  of  'The  Suwanee  River'  or  *Annie  Laurie' 
when  I  go  to  it."  There  is  an  honest  confession,  such 
as  we  must  all  make  if  we  are  to  do  our  souls  good. 

So  you  understand  why  there  is  so  much  of  Made- 
moiselle Simone  in  my  story  of  Cagnes,  and  why  the 
Artist  had  a  grouch.  His  afternoon's  work  should  have 
pleased  him,  should  have  satisfied  him.  He  would  not 
have  finished  it  had  he  met  Mademoiselle  Simone.  He 
knows  more  of  Cagnes  than  I  do,  but  he  would  rather 
have  known  more  of  Mademoiselle  Simone. 


[35] 


SAINT-PAUL-DU-VAR 


[37] 


CHAPTER  III 

Saint-Paul-du-Var 

AT  the  restaurant  opposite  the  Cagnes  railway  sta- 
tion the  waitress  welcomed  us  as  old  friends. 
She  told  us  how  lucky  we  were  to  come  on  a  Friday. 
Fish  just  caught  that  morning — the  best  we  would  ever 
eat  in  our  lives — were  waiting  for  us  in  the  kitchen. 
We  flattered  ourselves  that  the  disappointment  was 
mutual  when  we  had  to  tell  her  that  there  was  time  only 
for  an  aperitif.  Precisely  because  it  was  Friday  and 
not  Sunday,  there  was  no  reasonable  hope  of  running 
into  Monsieur  le  Cure  or  Mademoiselle  "Simone  or  a 
game  of  houles,  if  we  climbed  the  steep  hill  to  Cagnes. 
On  our  last  visit,  we  had  seen  from  the  top  of  Cagnes 
a  walled  city  crowning  another  hill  several  miles  inland. 
Saint-Paul-du-Var  was  our  goal  today. 

Electric   trams   run   to  Grasse   and   to  Vence   from 
Cagnes.     The  lines  separate  at  Villeneuve-Loubet,  a  mile 
back   from   the   Nice-Cannes   road.     The   Vence   tram 
[39] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


would  have  taken  us  to  Saint-Paul-du-Var  along  the 
road  that  began  to  avoid  the  valley  after  passing 
Villeneuve-Loubet.  It  was  one  of  those  routes  na- 
tionales  of  which  the  France  of  motorists  is  so  proud, 
hard  and  smooth  and  rounded  to  drain  quickly,  never 
allowing  itself  a  rut  or  a  steep  grade  or  a  sharp  turn. 
This  national  highway  was  like  all  the  easy  paths  in 
life.  It  meant  the  shortest  distance  comfortably  pos- 
sible for  obtaining  your  objective.  It  eliminated  sur- 
prises.* It  showed  you  all  the  time  all  there  was  to  see, 
and  kept  you  kilometrically  informed  of  your  progress. 
It  was  paralleled  by  the  electric  tram  line.  It  enabled 
you  to  explore  the  country  in  true  city  fashion. 

We  were  walking,  and  the  low  road,  signpostless,  at- 
tracted us.  It  started  off  in  the  same  general  direction, 
but  through  the  valley.  It  was  all  that  a  country  road 
ought  to  be.  It  had  honest  ruts  and  unattached  stones 
of  various  sizes.  Cows  had  passed  along  that  way. 
Trees  met  overhead  irregularly,  and  bushes  grew  up  in 
confusion  on  the  sides.  The  ruthlessness  of  macadam, 
the  pressure  of  fat  tires,  the  scorching  of  engines,  had 
not  banished  the  thick  grass  which  the  country  wants 
to  give  its  roads,  and  would  give  to  all  its  roads  if  the 
country  were  not  being  constantly  "improved."  There 
were  places  where  one  could  rest  without  fear  of  sun 
and  ditch-water  and  clouds  of  dust.  Why  should  one 
go  from  the  city  to  the  country  to  breathe  tar  and  gaso- 
hne?  Why  should  one  have  to  keep  one's  eyes  wander- 
ing from  far  ahead  to  back  over  one's  shoulder  for 
[40] 


SAINT-PAUL-DU-VAR 


fifty-two  weeks  in  the  year?  We  wanted  to  get  away 
from  clang-clang  and  honk-honk  and  puff-puff.  Since 
the  real  vacation  is  change,  we  welcomed  the  task  of 
looking  out  for  hostile  dogs  instead  of  swiftly  moving 
vehicles.  Our  noses  wanted  whiffs  of  hay  and  pig,  and 
our  boots  wanted  unadulterated  mud. 

We  were  not  allowed  to  have  our  way  without  a 
warning.  There  always  is  someone  to  keep  you  in  the 
straight  and  narrow  path.  As  we  were  turning  into 
the  low  road  a  passer-by  remonstrated. 

"If  you  are  going  to  Saint-Paul-du-Var,"  he  explained, 
"you  want  to  keep  to  the  high  road.  It's  very  muddy 
down  there,  and  will  take  you  longer." 

When  our  adviser  saw  that  we  did  not  stop,  he  raised 
his  voice  and  called,  "There  are  no  signposts  and  you 
may  get  lost." 

"You  take  the  high  road  and  we'll  take  the  low,"  sang 
back  the  Artist. 

He  who  had  meant  well  disappeared,  shaking  his  head. 
No  doubt,  as  he  shuffled  along,  he  was  muttering  to  him- 
self over  the  inexplicable  actions  of  ces  droles  d' Anglais. 

The  miles  passed  coolly  and  pleasantly.  Trees  and 
bushes  did  not  allow  many  glimpses  of  the  outside  world. 
The  dogs  that  barked  were  behind  farmhouse  gates, 
and  we  had  use  for  our  stones  only  at  an  occasional 
jackrabbit.  "At"  is  a  convenient  preposition.  It  gives 
one  latitude.  Jackrabbits  on  the  Riviera  are  not  like 
human  products  of  the  south.  They  jump  quickly. 
They  jump,  too,  in  directions  that  cannot  be  foretold. 
[41] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


After  one  particularly  bad  throw,  the  Artist  explained 
that  he  did  not  enjoy  inflicting  pain.  His  boyish  in- 
stincts had  long  ago  been  controlled  by  reading  S.  P. 
C.  A.  literature.  I  told  him  that  I  thought  he  had  given 
up  baseball  too  early  in  life.  So  had  I.  The  jack- 
rabbits  escaped. 

I  am  rarely  oblivious  to  the  duty  of  the  noon  hour. 
Although  I  knew  the  Artist's  habit  of  stopping  suddenly, 
and  the  hopelessness  of  budging  him  by  plea  or  argument 
as  long  as  the  reason  for  stopping  remained,  it  had  not 
occurred  to  me  that  there  would  be  a  risk  in  taking  the 
low  road.  We  had  started  in  plenty  of  time,  and  as 
we  were  out  for  a  medieval  town,  I  thought  he  would 
not  be  tempted  until  we  reached  the  vicinity  of  a  restau- 
rant. But  about  a  mile  below  Saint-Paul-du-Var  the  low 
road  brought  us  to  a  view  of  the  city  that  would  have 
held  me  at  any  other  time  than  twelve  noon.  I  tried 
the  old  expedient  of  walking  faster,  and  calling  atten- 
tion to  something  in  the  distance.  When  the  Artist 
halted,  moved  uncertainly  a  few  yards,  and  stopped 
again,  we  were  lost.  He  did  not  need  to  pronounce  the 
inevitable  words,  "I'll  just  get  this  little  bit."  The 
Artist's  "just"  means  anything  from  twenty  to  ninety 
minutes. 

Food  without  companionship  is  not  enjoyable,  least 
of  all  on  a  holiday.  There  was  no  use  suggesting  that 
we  could  come  back  this  way,  and  advancing  that  the 
light  would  be  so  much  better  later.  The  Artist  had 
started  in.  I  cast  around  for  some  way  of  escape  from 
[42] 


SAINT-PAUL-DU-VAR 


an  impossible  situation.  The  only  farmhouse  in  sight 
was  at  the  end  of  a  long  lane,  and  did  not  look  as  if 
it  could  produce  the  makings  of  a  meal.  The  poorest 
providers  and  preparers  of  foodstuffs  are  their  pro- 
ducers. Who  has  not  eaten  salt  pork  on  a  cattle  ranch 
and  longed  for  cream  on  a  dairy  farm?  What  city 
boarder  has  not  discovered  the  woeful  lack  of  connec- 
tion between  the  cackling  of  hens  and  the  certitude  of 
fresh  eggs  on  the  table  at  the  next  meal  ?  What  muncher 
of  Maine  doughnuts  in  a  Boston  restaurant  has  not 
thought  of  the  "sinkers"  offered  to  him  when  he  was 
on  his  last  summer's  vacation? 

A  bridge  crossed  a  stream  just  ahead  of  us.  On  the 
other  side  was  a  thick  clump  of  trees.  I  walked  for- 
ward with  the  thought  that  a  drink  of  water  at  least 
might  not  be  bad.  When  I  got  to  the  bridge  I  heard 
plaintive  barking  and  a  man's  voice.  The  man  was  ex- 
plaining to  the  dog  why  he  ought  not  to  be  impatient. 
He  would  have  his  good  bone,  with  plenty  of  meat  on  it, 
in  a  little  quarter  of  an  hour.  A  house-wagon  was 
standing  back  from  the  side  of  the  road.  The  owner 
was  shaking  a  casserole  over  a  fire,  and  the  dog  was 
sniffing  as  near  as  he  dared.  The  dog  gave  me  his  at- 
tention, and  the  man  turned.  It  was  a  favorite  waiter 
of  a  favorite  Montparnasse  cafe. 

"Pierre,"  I  cried,  "where  did  you  drop  from?  What 
luck!" 

Pierre  put  the  casserole  on  the  window  ledge,  out  of 
the  dog's  reach,  and  greeted  me.  You  never  could  sur- 
[43] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


prise  Pierre.  He  was  always  master  of  the  situation. 
One  has  to  be  in  a  Montpamasse  cafe.  I  noted  with  ap- 
proval the  precaution  that  Pierre  had  taken.  Either  the 
dog  was  very  hungry  or  there  was  something  particularly 
tempting  in  the  casserole. 

Pierre  had  gone  to  join  his  regiment  on  the  second 
day  of  the  war.  I  had  not  seen  him  or  heard  of  him 
for  two  years.  He  told  me  that  he  had  been  unable  to 
shake  off  a  bronchite,  caught  in  the  trenches.  It  was 
the  old  story.  When  he  left  the  hospital,  the  medical 
board  declared  him  unfit  for  further  service  and  warned 
him  against  returning  soon  to  city  life.  The  hope  of 
recovery  lay  in  open  air  and  sunshine. 

"I  determined  to  get  well,  Monsieur,"  he  said.  "I 
had  money  saved  up.  I  bought  this  wagon  and  a 
cinematograph  outfit.  I  go  to  the  little  towns  in  the 
Midi.  One  can  take  only  four  sous — two  from  the  chil- 
dren— but  I  get  along.  Now,  when  I  am  well,  I  shall 
not  go  back  to  Paris.  Have  you  ever  lived  in  a  wagon, 
Monsieur?  No?  Well,  never  do  it,  if  you  do  not  want 
to  realize  that  it  is  the  only  life  worth  living." 

Pierre  was  interested  in  the  gossip  of  the  Quarter. 
A  frequent  "c'est  vrai"  and  "d%tes  done"  punctuated  my 
news  of  American  artists  who  had  gone  home  at  last. 
When  I  told  him  of  the  few  who  had  sold  pictures  in 
America,  his  comment  was  "epatant,"  which  he  meant 
in  no  uncomplimentary  sense.  The  Artist  was  an  old 
favorite  of  Pierre's.  I  restrained  his  impulse  to  go 
right  out  to  greet  the  Artist.  Pierre  entered  into  my 
[44] 


1^     i 


^iS!^, 


1     -"4 


,-^ 
'* 


^^^y^'^ 


/[  ^«'-  •  -r* 


I't-m'r^ 


4/- 


!f1^/'"- 


./ 


The    walls    rose    sheer,    and    only    the    outer    houses,    directly 
behind    the    ramparts,    were    in    our    line    of    vision" 


SAINT-PAUL-DU-VAR 


idea  with  alacrity.  The  dog  was  given  a  bone  and 
chained.  The  coal  box  was  brought  out  from  the  wagon, 
and  turned  upside  down  for  a  table  beside  a  fallen  tree. 
When  all  was  ready,  I  watched  Pierre  surprise  the  Artist. 
He  put  a  napkin  over  his  arm,  and  froze  his  face.  Then 
he  tip-toed  up  to  the  Artist's  elbow,  and  announced, 
^'Monsieur  est  servL"  For  once  I  was  able  to  get  the 
Artist  away  from  his  work. 

What  a  meal  we  did  have  there  beside  that  little 
stream!  There  were  bottles  in  Pierre's  wagon,  and  he 
insisted  upon  opening  more  than  one.  When  we  finally 
left  Pierre  to  his  dishes,  we  were  well  fortified  for  the 
climb  to  Saint-Paul-du-Var,  and  in  the  mood  to  appre- 
ciate enthusiastically  all  that  was  before  us. 

Above  on  the  left  we  could  see  the  high  road  that 
we  had  deserted  at  Villeneuve-Loubet.  It  did  not  come 
out  of  its  way  for  Saint-Paul-du-Var,  but  went  straight 
on  inland  Vence-wards.  A  side  road,  on  the  level,  came 
over  towards  the  gate  of  Saint-Paul-du-Var.  To  this 
road  ours  mounted,  and  joined  it  just  outside  the  town. 
In  climbing  we  had  the  opportunity,  denied  to  the  con- 
ventional, of  seeing  that  Saint-Paul-du-Var  was  really 
on  the  top  of  a  hill.  The  walls  rose  sheer,  and  only 
the  outer  houses,  directly  behind  the  ramparts,  were  in 
our  line  of  vision.  Nearly  up  to  the  entrance  to  the  city 
we  passed  between  a  tiny  stone  chapel  and  a  mill,  whose 
wheel  was  a  curious  combination  of  metal  and  wood. 
The  Artist  exclaimed  that  it  would  make  a  bully  sketch. 
He  saw  its  picturesque  possibilities.  I  wondered,  on  the 
[45] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


other  hand,  whether  it  would  work  and  how  it  worked. 
Moss  and  grass  on  a  millwheel  in  the  Midi  are  no  surer 
signs  of  abandonment  and  disuse  than  a  dry  millrace. 
Where  things  die  fast  they  grow  fast.  A  little  water 
brings  forth  vegetable  life  in  a  single  day.  Southern 
streams  are  not  perennial.  On  the  Riviera,  they  are  fed 
from  nearby  mountains,  and  are  intermittent  even  in 
their  season.  When  the  water  ceases,  the  sun  quickly 
bakes  a  crust  of  silt  and  dries  the  stones  of  the  river- 
beds gray-brown. 

A  dwarf  could  hardly  have  said  mass  in  the  chapel. 
Its  rear  wall  was  the  rising  ground,  and  there  seemed  to 
be  a  garden  on  the  roof.  Burial  space  extending  no 
farther  than  the  roots  of  a  sentinel  cypress  told  the  tale 
of  one  man's  vanity  or  devotion.  The  situation  of  the 
chapel  prompted  us  to  look  over  the  ground  for  traces 
of  a  lunette  bastion  on  the  counterscarp.  We  found 
that  the  chapel  was  built  upon  an  earlier  foundation  of 
stone  taken  from  a  fortification  wall,  and  that  later 
builders  had  made  over  the  chapel  into  a  belvedere. 
Steps  on  the  side  of  the  slope  led  to  the  roof,  upon  which 
two  benches  had  been  placed.  What  past  generations 
have  left  us  we  use  for  purposes  of  our  own.  We  talk 
sentimentally  of  our  traditions,  but  we  test  them  by 
their  utility. 

Saint-Paul-du-Var  fails  to  satisfy  twentieth-century 
standards.  It  is  not  a  thriving,  bustling  city.  It  is  not 
a  tourist  center.  The  walls  are  as  they  were  five  cen- 
turies ago.  The  space  inside  is  sufficient  for  the  popula- 
[46] 


SAINT-PAUL-DU-VAR 


tion,  and  one  gate  serves  all  needs.  The  medieval  as- 
pect is  not  destroyed  by  buildings  outside  the  walls,  and 
the  medieval  atmosphere  is  undisturbed  by  hotel  touts 
and  postcard  vendors.  When  we  presented  ourselves  be- 
fore the  gate,  not  a  soul  was  in  sight.  A  bronze  cannon 
of  Charles-Quint's  time  stuck  its  nose  out  of  the  ground 
by  the  portcullis.  We  had  to  pull  off  grass  and  dirt  to 
find  the  inscription.  While  we  were  examining  the 
towers  that  flanked  the  gate,  a  wagon  rattled  slowly  by. 
The  driver  did  not  look  at  us.  A  woman  with  a  basket 
of  vegetables  on  her  head  met  us  under  the  arch.  She 
did  not  look  at  us.  We  found  the  same  indifference  in 
the  town.  Even  the  small  boys  refrained  from  staring 
or  grinning  or  yelling  or  asking  for  pennies.  None 
volunteered  to  show  us  around. 

"The  interest  in  our  arrival  at  Saint-Paul-du-Var," 
commented  the  Artist,  "is  all  on  our  side." 

Human  nature  is  full  of  contradictions.  We  should 
have  been  annoyed  if  people  had  bothered  us.  We  were 
as  much  annoyed  when  they  paid  no  attention  to  us. 

We  went  up  in  one  of  the  towers  to  reach  the  ram- 
parts. Keeping  on  the  walls  all  the  way  around  the  town 
involved  an  occasional  bit  of  climbing.  We  had  to  for- 
get our  clothes.  That  was  easy,  however,  for  every  step 
of  the  way  was  of  compelling  interest  extra  et  intra 
muros.  Outside,  the  panorama  of  the  Riviera,  sea  and 
mountains,  towns  and  valleys,  lay  before  us  to  the  four 
points  of  the  compass.  Inside,  houses  of  different  cen- 
turies but  none  post-Bourbon,  each  crowding  its  neighbor 
[47] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


but  none  without  individuality  of  its  own,  faced  us  and 
curved  with  us.  For  once,  the  Artist  failed  to  single 
out  a  subject. 

Seaward,  beyond  the  valley  through  which  we  had 
come,  were  Villeneuve-Loubet  and  Cagnes.  On  the 
right  we  could  see  to  the  Antibes  lighthouse,  and  on  the 
left,  across  the  Var,  to  the  point  between  Nice  and 
Villefranche.  Landward  were  Vence  and  the  wall  of  the 
Alpes  Maritimes.  The  afternoon  sun  fell  full  on  the 
snow  and  darkened  the  upper  valleys  of  the  numerous 
confluents  of  the  Var  and  Loup  rivers. 

Sketching  was  tomorrow's  task.  There  was  time  only 
for  exploration  of  the  city  before  sunset.  We  came 
down  at  the  tower  opposite  the  one  from  which  we  had 
started  on  our  round.  On  the  road  to  the  electric  tram, 
we  saw  the  restaurant-hotel,  a  cube  of  whitewash,  but 
we  were  far  from  the  temptation  of  banalities.  Tea  or 
something,  and  a  place  to  spend  the  night,  could  be  found 
within  the  walls. 

Saint-Paul-du-Var  caught  us  in  its  fascinating  maze. 
We  forgot  that  we  were  thirsty.  There  was  just  one 
street.  It  zigzagged  its  way  across  the  town  from  the 
gate.  You  lost  the  points  of  the  compass  and  hardly 
realized  that  you  were  going  over  the  top  of  a  hill 
The  street  curved  every  hundred  yards,  and  frequently 
turned  around  three  sides  of  a  single  building.  Foun- 
tains were  at  the  bends.  One  of  them,  opposite  the 
market,  fed  a  square  pool  that  was  the  city  laundry. 
;Women,  kneeling  on  the  edge,  were  at  the  eternal  task. 
[48] 


SAINT-PAUL-DU-VAR 


We   passed    the   centers    of   municipal    life,    post-office, 
mairie,  gendarmerie,  school  and  church. 

Churches  of  Riviera  towns,  like  the  character  and 
speech  and  features  of  the  people,  are  a  reminder  of  the 
recency  of  the  French  occupation.  There  is  a  replica  of 
the  church  of  Saint-Paul-du-Var  in  a  thousand  Italian 
cities.  When  you  enter  the  colorless  building  from  the 
plain  curved  porch,  the  chill  strikes  right  into  your  bones. 
Windows  do  not  compete  with  candles.  You  have  to 
grope  your  way  toward  the  altar.  Unless  you  strain 
your  eyes,  or  lamps  are  burning,  side  chapels  pass  un- 
noticed. If  you  are  looking  for  inscriptions  or  want  to 
admire  the  old  master's  picture,  with  which  every  church 
claims  to  be  endowed,  you  must  get  the  verger  with  his 
taper.  Altars  are  gaudily  decorated  and  statues  be- 
jeweled  and  be  (artificial)  flowered  in  Hispano-Italian 
fashion.  The  mairie,  reconstructed  from  an  ancient 
palace  or  castle,  was  more  interesting.  Beside  the  mairie 
a  medieval  square  tower,  which  may  have  been  a  donjon, 
was  occupied  on  the  ground  floor  by  the  gendarmerie. 
Bars  on  the  upper  windows  indicated  that  it  was  still  the 
prison. 

We  tried  the  alleys  that  led  off  from  the  street,  think- 
ing each  might  be  a  thoroughfare  to  take  us  back  to  the 
ramparts.  They  ended  abruptly  in  a  cul-de-sac  or  court. 
The  culs-de-sac,  uninviting  to  eye  and  nose,  were  as 
Italian  as  the  church.  The  houses  in  the  courts  were 
stables  downstairs.  Man  and  beast  lived  together. 
Flowers  and  wee  bushes  grew  up  around  the  wells  in 
[49] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


the  center  of  the  courts.  Everything  was  built  of  stone 
and  red-tiled.  But  there  was  none  of  the  dull  gray-and- 
red  monotony  of  northern  towns  near  the  sea  or  of  the 
sharp  gray-and-red  monotony  of  towns  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean peninsulas.  Grass  sprouted  out  between  the 
stones  of  the  walls  and  the  tiles  of  the  roofs.  From 
window-ledges  and  eaves  hung  ferns.  A  blush  of  moss 
on  the  stones  added  to  the  green  of  plant  life,  and 
softened  the  austerity  of  the  gray.  Nature  was  success- 
ful in  asserting  herself  against  man  and  sun  and  sea. 

We  were  expressing  our  enthusiasm  in  a  court  where 
the  living  green  combined  with  age  to  glorify  the  build- 
ings. We  did  not  see  the  dilapidation,  we  did  not  smell 
the  dirt,  we  did  not  feel  the  squalor.  A  woman  was 
lighting  a  fire  in  a  brazier  on  her  doorstep.  She  looked 
hostilely  at  us.  We  beamed  in  counteraction.  She 
looked  more  hostilely.  As  the  Artist  wanted  to  sketch 
her  house,  some  words  seemed  necessary.  I  detailed 
our  emotions.  Was  not  her  lot,  cast  in  this  picturesque 
spot,  most  enviable? 

"We  want  to  take  away  with  us,"  I  said,  "a  tangible 
memory  of  this  beautiful,  this  picturesque,  this  verdant 
court  in  which  you  live." 

"If  you  had  to  live  here,"  she  announced  simply, 
"you'd  want  to  go  away  and  forget  it." 

The  fumes  had  burned  from  the  charcoal.  The 
woman  picked  up  the  brazier,  carried  it  inside  without 
another  word  or  look,  and  slammed  the  door  behind  her 
with  her  foot. 

[50] 


V^. '^^-Ji  £<5^    '^'•^•^^         ■,<] 


iK.i:^ 


'1^  i.'^-i-' •-^^B^'v  ' 


SAINT-PAUL-DU-VAR 


The  Artist  was  already  in  his  sketch,  but  he  paused 
to  growl  and  philosophize.  "If  she  had  waited  a  minute 
longer,"  he  complained,  "I  should  have  had  her  and  the 
brazier.  Funny  how  unappreciative  people  are.  You 
and  I,  mon  vieux^,  would  like  nothing  better  than  to  stay 
here.  From  the  other  side  of  her  house  that  woman 
must  have  a  great  view  of  the  sea  and  the  mountains. 
Is  she  going  to  watch  the  sunset?  No,  she  is  going  to 
make  soup  for  her  man  on  that  brazier  in  a  dark  hole 
of  a  room,  and  feel  sorry  for  herself  because  she  doesn't 
live  in  Paris  where  she  could  go  to  the  movies  every 
night." 

Our  ardor  for  Saint-Paul-du-Var  lasted  splendidly 
through  the  sunset  on  the  ramparts.  We  had  found  the 
ideal  spot.  Hoi  polloi  could  have  their  Nice  and  their 
Cannes!  But  when  night  fell,  there  were  few  lights 
on  the  street,  and  shopkeepers  looked  at  us  in  stupid 
amazement  when  we  inquired  about  lodgings.  We  did 
not  dare  to  ask  in  the  drinking  places,  for  fear  they 
might  volunteer  to  put  us  up.  In  the  epiceries,  we  were 
offered  bread  and  sardines.  There  was  no  butter.  So 
we  went  rather  less  reluctantly  than  we  had  thought 
possible  an  hour  earlier  out  of  the  gate  towards  the 
hotel-restaurant.  An  old  man  was  camped  against  the 
wall  in  a  wagon  like  Pierre's.  He  had  been  sharpening 
Saint-Paul-du-Var's  scissors  and  knives.  We  confided 
in  him,  and  asked  if  he  thought  the  hotel-restaurant 
would  give  us  a  good  dinner  and  a  good  bed.  The 
scissors-grinder  wrinkled  his  nose  and  twinkled  his  eyes. 
[51] 


RIVIERA  TO^\^S 


"The  last  tram  from  Vence  to  Cagnes  stops  over  there 
at  eight-ten,"  he  said  decisively,  "You  have  five  minutes 
to  catch  it.  Get  off  at  Villeneuve-Loubet,  and  go  to  the 
Hotel  Beau-Site.  The  proprietor  is  a  cordon  bleu  of  a 
chef.  He  has  his  own  trout,  and  he -knows  just  what 
tourists  like  to  eat  and  drink.  Motorists  stop  there  over 
night,  so  you  need  have  no  fear." 

"But — "  I  started  to  remonstrate. 

The  Artist  was  already  hurrying  in  the  direction  of 
the  tram.     I  followed  him. 

The  next  morning  the  Artist  went  back  to  Saint-Paul- 
du-Var  for  his  sketches.  I  did  not  accompany  him. 
Saint-Paul-du-Var  was  a  delightful  memory,  and  I 
wanted  to  keep  it. 


[52] 


VILLENEUVE-LOUBET 


[53] 


CHAPTER  IV 


ViLLENEUVE-LoUBET 


ON  a  hill  a  mile  or  so  back  from  the  Cannes-Nice 
road,  just  before  one  reaches  Cagnes,  a  castle  of 
unusual  size  and  severity  of  outline  rises  above  the  trees 
of  a  park.  The  roads  from  Cagnes  to  Grasse  and  Vence 
bifurcate  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  on  which  the  castle  is 
built.  What  one  thinks  of  the  castle  depends  upon 
which  road  one  takes.  The  traveler  on  the  Vence  road 
sees  a  pretentious  entrance,  constructed  for  automobiles, 
with  a  twentieth-century  iron  gate  and  a  twentieth-cen- 
tury porter's  lodge.  The  park  looks  well  groomed. 
The  wall  along  the  Vence  side  is  as  new  as  the  gate  and 
the  lodge.  The  stone  of  the  castle  is  white  and  fresh. 
One  dismisses  the  castle  as  an  imitation  or  a  wholesale 
restoration  by  an  architect  lacking  in  imagination  and 
cleverness.  But  if  the  left  hand  road  toward  Grasse  is 
taken,  one  sees  twelfth-century  fortifications  coming 
[55] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


down  from  the  top  of  the  hill  to  the  roadside.  There 
are  ruins  of  bastions  and  towers  overgrown  with  bushes 
and  ivy.  Farther  along  an  old  town  is  revealed  climb- 
ing the  hill  to  the  castle.  There  is  nothing  nouveau  riche 
about  Villeneuve-Loubet.  The  only  touches  of  the 
modem  are  the  motor  road  with  kilometer  stones,  the 
iron  bridge  over  the  Loup,  and  the  huge  sign  informing 
you  that  the  hotel  is  near  by. 

Had  we  limited  our  inland  exploration  to  the  Vence 
side  of  the  hill,  the  Artist  and  I  would  not  have  dis- 
covered Villeneuve-Loubet.  Had  we  been  hurrying 
through  toward  Grasse  in  automobile  or  tram,  we  would 
probably  have  exclaimed  "how  picturesque"  or  "inter- 
esting, isn't  it?"  and  continued  our  way.  Luck  saved 
us. 

A  scissors-grinder  at  the  gate  of  Saint-Paul-du-Var 
recommended  the  trout  and  beds  of  the  Villeneuve- 
Loubet  hotel.  Just  as  the  moon  was  coming  up  one 
April  evening,  we  got  off  the  Vence-Cagnes  tram  at  the 
junction  of  the  Grasse  tramway,  and  walked  to  the  reve- 
lation of  what  the  castle  really  was.  We  decided  to  eat 
something  in  a  hurry,  and  go  around  the  town  that  very 
evening. 

When,  helped  by  the  sign,  we  reached  the  Hotel 
Beau-Site,  the  proprietor  came  forward  with  his  best 
shuffle  and  bow.  Trout?  Of  course  there  were  trout, 
plenty  of  them.  Alas,  in  these  days  of  war,  which  meant 
scarcity  of  gasoline  and  bothersome  sauf -conduits  and 
suppression  of  express  trains,  there  were  too  many  trout. 
[56] 


- 19^'  ■ 


'A    castle    of    unusual    size    and    severity    of    outline    rises    above    the 
trees  of  a  park" 


VILLENEUVE-LOUBET 


But  that  was  to  the  advantage  of  messieurs.  He,  Jean 
Alphonse,  could  give  a  large  choice,  and  the  dinner  would 
have  all  his  attention.  It  was  his  pride  and  rule  to  give 
personal  attention  always  to  every  dish  that  left  his 
kitchen,  but  with  the  monde  of  a  regular  season,  he 
could  not  take  every  fish  out  of  the  pan  himself,  and  see 
that  the  slices  of  lemon  were  cut,  and  the  parsley  put, 
just  as  he  had  always  done  when  he  was  the  chef  of 
Monsieur  Blanc.  We  knew  Monsieur  Blanc.  Monsieur 
Blanc  died  eight  years  ago,  but  that  was  the  way  of  the 
world.  Now  messieurs  could  go  right  along  with  him 
and  pick  out  their  own  fish.  The  net  was  down  by  the 
pool,  and  he  would  get  a  lamp  in  just  one  little  minute. 
For  that  would  be  best.  The  moon  was  coming  up,  true. 
But  one  could  not  trust  the  moonlight  in  choosing  fish. 

The  garden  of  the  Hotel  Beau-Site  contains  a  curious 
succession  of  bowers  made  by  training  bamboo  trees  for 
partitions  and  ceilings.  As  we  went  through  them,  Jean 
Alphonse  explained  that  these  natural  salons  particuliers, 
where  parties  could  have  luncheon  out-of-doors  and  yet 
remain  sheltered  from  the  sun  and  in  privacy,  combined 
with  the  trout  to  give  his  hotel  a  wonderful  vogue  in 
tourist  season.  We,  of  course,  insisted  that  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  chef  must  be  the  third  and  controlling  attrac- 
tion. The  pool  was  full,  and  the  trout  had  no  chance. 
It  was  not  a  sporting  proposition;  but  just  before  din- 
ner one  does  not  think  of  that.  Even  our  choice  out  of 
the  net  was  gently  guided  by  Jean  Alphonse.  Since  hu- 
man nature  is  the  same  the  world  over,  is  it  surprising 
[57], 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


that  the  tricks  calculated  to  captivate  and  deceive  are 
the  same?  I  recalled  a  famous  restaurant  in  Moscow, 
where  one  goes  to  the  fountain  with  a  white-robed  Tartar 
waiter  and  thinks  he  picks  out  his  fish.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  Jean  Alphonse  believed  that  his  idea  was  original, 
and  that  we  were  experiencing  a  new  sensation. 

Jean  Alphonse  did  not  boast  idly  of  his  cuisine.  He 
possessed,  too,  the  genius  of  the  successful  boniface  for 
knowing  what  would  please  his  guests.  He  sensed  our 
lack  of  interest  in  the  wines  of  the  Midi,  and,  helped  by 
the  Artist's  checked  knickers  and  slender  cane,  set  forth 
a  bottle  of  old  Scotch.  We  refused  to  allow  him  to  open 
the  dining-room  for  us,  and  had  our  dinner  in  a  comer 
of  the  cafe.  Villeneuve-Loubet's  elite  gathered  to  see  us 
eat.  The  garde-champetre,  the  veteran  of  1870,  the 
chatelain's  bailiff,  the  local  representative  in  the  Legion 
of  Honor  (rosette,  not  ribbon,  if  you  please),  and  two 
chasseurs  alpins,  home  from  the  Vosges  front  on  sick 
leave,  ordered  their  coffee  or  liqueur  at  other  tables,  but 
were  glad  to  join  us  when  we  said  the  word.  Soon  we 
had  a  dozen  around  us.  The  history  of  the  war — and 
past  and  future  wars — and  of  Villeneuve-Loubet  was 
set  forth  in  detail. 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  moon,  we  should  certainly  have 
gone  from  the  table  to  our  rooms.  But  the  full  moon 
on  the  Riviera  makes  a  more  fascinating  fairyland  than 
one  can  find  in  dreams.  We  did  not  hesitate,  when  the 
last  of  our  friends  left,  to  follow  them  out-of-doors. 
Villeneuve-Loubet  might  prove  to  be  a  modest  town  to- 
[58] 


VILLENEUVE-LOUBET 


morrow,  old,  of  course,  and  interesting:  but  we  were 
going  to  see  it  tonight  under  the  spell  of  the  moon.  We 
were  going  to  wander  where  we  willed,  with  all  the  town 
to  ourselves.  We  were  going  to  live  for  an  hour  in  the 
Middle  Ages.  For  if  there  was  anything  modern  in 
Villeneuve-Loubet,  the  moonlight  would  hide  it  or  gloss 
it  over;  if  there  was  anything  ancient,  the  moonlight 
would  enable  us  to  see  it  as  we  wanted  to  see  it.  I  pity 
the  limited  souls  who  do  not  believe  in  moonshine,  and 
use  the  word  contemptuously.  One  is  illogical  who  con- 
tends that  moonshine  gives  a  false  idea  of  things ;  for  he 
is  testing  the  moonshine  impression  by  sunshine.  It 
would  be  as  illogical  to  say  that  sunshine  gives  a  false 
idea  of  things  on  the  ground  that  moonshine  is  the 
standard.  If  sunshine  is  reality,  so  is  moonshine.  The 
difference  is  that  we  are  more  accustomed  to  see  things 
by  sunlight  than  by  moonlight.  Our  test  of  reality  is 
familiarity,  and  of  truth  repetition. 

Villeneuve-Loubet  is  built  against  a  cliff.  The  houses 
rise  on  tiers  of  stone  terraces.  They  are  made  of  stone 
quarried  on  the  spot.  Red  tiles,  the  conspicuous  feature 
of  Mediterranean  cities,  are  lacking  in  Villeneuve-Loubet. 
The  roofs  are  slabs  of  stone.  The  streets  are  the  sur- 
face of  the  cliff.  We  climbed  toward  the  castle  through 
a  ghost-city.  The  moon  enhanced  the  gray-whiteness 
that  was  the  common  color  of  ground,  walls  and  roofs. 
The  shadows,  sharp  and  black,  were  needed  to  set  forth 
the  lines  of  the  buildings. 

The  picture  called  for  a  witch.  The  silence  was 
[59] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


broken  by  the  tapping  of  a  cane.  Around  the  comer  the 
witch  hobbled  into  the  scene,  testing  each  step  before  her. 
She  was  dressed  in  black,  of  course,  and  bent  over  with 
just  the  curve  of  the  back  the  Artist  loves  to  give  to  his 
old  women.  She  was  a  friendly  soul,  and  did  not  seem 
amazed  to  find  strangers  strolling  late  at  night  in  her 
town.  We  were  ''Anglais/^  and  that  was  explanation 
enough  to  one  who  had  seen  three  generations  of  tourists. 
She  stopped  to  talk  about  the  war.  Did  we  think  the 
Germans  were  going  to  be  beaten  this  year,  or  were  they 
strong,  as  in  Soixante-dix?  Were  the  English  in  earnest 
about  their  millions  of  soldiers,  and  would  they  raise  an 
army  like  that  of  France?  France  could  not  carry  the 
burden  alone.  Fifty-one  had  gone  from  Villeneuve- 
Loubet,  and  half  were  dead  or  prisoners  in  Germany. 
What  was  our  impression  of  her  country?  We  knew 
that  she  meant  by  "country"  not  France  but  Villeneuve- 
Loubet,  and  mustered  our  best  vocabulary  to  admire  the 
town,  the  solid  foundations,  the  houses,  the  protecting 
castle,  and  above  all,  the  unique  streets  of  stone. 

"But  it  must  be  very  difficult  to  go  up  and  down  in 
winter.  How  do  you  manage  when  the  rock  is  frozen 
over  with  snow  and  ice  ?"  I  asked. 

"It  does  not  freeze  here,"  she  answered. 

The  moon-whiteness  had  made  me  think  of  winter,  and 
it  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  there  would  be  no  snow 
and  ice.  Ideas  are  pervasive.  We  place  them  im- 
mediately and  unquestioningly  upon  the  hypothesis  that 
happens  to  fit. 

[60] 


'Villeneuve-Loubet    is    built    against    a    cliff.       The 
houses    rise   on   tiers  of  stone   terraces" 


VILLENEUVE-LOUBET 


The  church,  of  eighteenth-century  architecture,  is  the 
last  building  at  the  upper  end  of  the  town.  It  stands  on 
a  terrace  outside  the  lower  wall  of  the  castle,  an  eloquent 
witness  of  the  survival  of  feudal  ideas.  In  order  that 
the  lord  of  the  manor  need  not  go  far  to  mass,  when 
there  happened  to  be  no  private  chaplain  in  the  castle, 
the  town-folk  must  climb  to  their  devotions.  I  tried  the 
church  door  from  habit.  It  was  not  locked.  The 
Artist  refused  to  go  in. 

"Why  should  one  poke  around  a  church,  especially  at 
night  and  this  night  ?"  he  remonstrated,  and  walked  over 
to  the  wall  of  the  terrace. 

"There  may  be  something  inside,"  I  urged. 

"There  is  something  outside,"  he  answered,  with  his 
back  turned  upon  the  castle  as  well  as  church. 

I  could  see  my  way  around,  for  the  windows  of  nave 
and  transept  were  large,  and  had  plain  glass.  Moonlight 
was  sufficient  to  read  inscriptions  that  set  forth  in  detail 
the  pedigree  of  the  chatelains.  The  baptismal  names 
overflowed  a  line,  and  were  followed  by  a  family  name 
almost  as  long,  MARCH-TRIPOLY  DE  PANISSE- 
PASSIS.  Longest  of  all  was  the  list  of  titles.  The 
chatelains  were  marquesses  and  counts  and  knights  of 
Malta  and  seigneurs  of  a  dozen  domains  of  the  north- 
lands  as  well  as  of  Provence.  March-Tripoly  and  some 
of  the  seigneural  names  told  the  story  that  I  have  often 
read  in  church  inscriptions  near  the  sea  in  Italy,  in 
Hungary,  in  Dalmatia  and  in  Greece,  as  well  as  in 
Provence  and  Catalonia.  The  feudal  families  of  the 
[61] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


Mediterranean  are  of  Teutonic  and  Scandinavian  origin. 
They  were  founded  by  the  stock  that  destroyed  the 
Roman  Empire,  barbarians,  stronger,  more  energetic, 
more  resourceful,  more  resolute  than  the  southerners 
whom  they  made  their  serfs.  When  feudalism,  through 
the  formation  of  larger  political  units  by  the  extension 
of  kingly  rights,  began  to  decline,  the  chatelains  preserved 
their  prestige  by  supporting  the  propaganda  to  redeem 
the  Holy  Sepulcher.  They  took  the  Cross  and  went  to 
fight  the  Saracens  in  Africa  and  Asia.  When  climate 
rather  than  culture  latinized  them,  later  northmen  came 
and  dispossessed  them.  The  men  of  the  north  have  al- 
ways been  fighting  their  way  to  the  Mediterranean.  Are 
Germans  and  Russians  disturbing  the  peace  of  Europe 
any  more  or  any  differently  than  Northern  Europeans 
have  always  done?  Since  the  dawn  of  history,  the 
Mediterranean  races  have  had  to  contend  with  the  men 
of  the  north  seeking  the  sun. 

Behind  the  church,  ruins  of  centuries,  overgrown  with 
shrubbery  and  ivy,  cling  to  the  side  of  the  cliff  from  the 
castle  to  the  valley  road.  The  great  square  mass  of  the 
castle  rises  on  top  of  a  slope  far  above  the  church  terrace. 
A  moat,  filled  with  bushes,  is  on  a  level  with  the  terrace, 
and  beyond  the  moat  is  a  wall.  An  unkept  path  leads 
through  the  moat  to  a  modest  door.  From  the  towers 
and  arch  above  one  can  see  that  the  former  entrance  to 
the  castle,  by  means  of  a  portcullis,  was  on  this  side. 
But  the  outer  wall  has  been  rebuilt,  leaving  only  a  ser- 
vants' door.  Evidently  the  chatelain  used  to  enter  by 
[62] 


VILLENEUVE-LOUBET 


climbing  up  through  Villeneuve-Loubet  as  we  had  done. 
Since  the  motor  road  was  made  on  the  other  side  of  the 
hill,  he  and  his  guests  can  ignore  Villeneuve-Loubet. 

The  Artist  was  sitting  on  the  wall  of  the  terrace,  en- 
grossed in  midnight  labor.  He  was  willing  to  stop  for 
a  pipe.  Above  us  the  castle,  dominated  by  a  pentagonal 
tower,  rose  toward  the  moon.  Below  us,  the  blanched 
roofs  of  Villeneuve-Loubet  slanted  into  the  valley.  As 
long  as  the  pipe  lasted,  I  was  able  to  talk  to  the  Artist 
about  the  men  of  the  north  seeking  the  sun.  But  when 
the  bowl  ceased  to  respond  to  matches,  he  said:  "All 
very  well,  but  I  know  one  man  of  the  north  who  is  going 
to  seek  his  bed." 

Before  reaching  the  Hotel  Beau-Site,  however,  a  street 
on  the  left  attracted  us.  It  seemed  to  end  in  a  flight  of 
steps  that  dipped  under  arches,  and  we  could  hear  the 
swift  rush  of  water.  We  were  not  so  sleepy  as  we 
thought,  for  both  of  us  were  still  willing  to  explore. 
The  steps  led  to  the  flour  mill.  We  followed  the  mill- 
race  until  we  reached  the  Grasse  tram  road  near  the 
river.  By  the  tram  station,  a  light  was  seining  from 
the  open  door  of  a  cafe  in  a  wooden  shanty.  We  went 
in,  and  found  Villeneuve-Loubet's  officer  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor  smoking  his  pipe  over  a  cup  of  tilleid. 

"There  has  been  an  accident  in  the  gorge  of  the  Loup," 
he  said.  "The  last  tram  from  Grasse  was  derailed,  and 
two  automobiles  from  Cagnes  went  up  an  hour  ago.  As 
I  am  the  maire,  I  must  wait  for  news.  There  may  be 
something  for  me  to  do." 

[63] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


Monsieur  le  Maire  told  us  that  he  had  spent  his  Hfe  in 
the  West  African  coast  trade,  with  headquarters  in 
Marseilles.  If  he  had  stayed  there  to  end  his  days,  he 
would  have  been  one  of  a  hundred  thousand  in  a  great 
city,  cast  aside  and  ignored  by  the  new  generation.  But 
in  his  native  pays  he  was  in  the  thick  of  things.  To  re- 
turn to  their  old  home  is  not  wholly  a  question  of  senti- 
ment with  Frenchmen  who  retire  from  business  in  the 
city  or  the  colonies.  Money  goes  farther,  and  one  can 
be  an  official,  with  public  duties  and  honors,  and  enjoy 
the  privilege  of  writing  on  notepaper  bearing  the  magic 
heading,  Republique  Frangaise.  Monsieur  le  Maire  told 
us  that  the  chatelain  came  often,  and  never  forgot  to  in- 
vite him  to  meet  the  guests  at  the  castle.  Some  years  ago 
I  used  to  think  that  it  was  a  peculiar  characteristic  of 
the  French  to  enjoy  being  made  much  of  and  exercising 
authority.  But  since  I  have  traveled  in  my  own  and 
many  other  countries  I  have  come  to  realize  that  this 
characteristic  is  not  peculiarly  French. 

When  Monsieur  le  Maire  spoke  of  the  chatelain,  I  had 
my  opening.  Full  of  the  idea  of  the  men  of  the  north 
seeking  the  sun,  I  was  ready  to  spread  to  others  the  im- 
pression I  had  made  upon  myself  of  my  own  erudition 
and  cleverness.  At  the  risk  of  boring  the  Artist,  I  re- 
peated and  enlarged  upon  my  deductions  from  the  in- 
scription of  the  March-Tripoly  de  Panisse-Passis.  Alon- 
sieur  le  Maire  looked  at  me  with  malicious  amazement. 

"La-la-la!"  he  cried.  "Not  so  fast.  You  haven't  got 
it  right  at  all,  at  all,  at  all!  The  castle  of  Villeneuve- 
[64] 


VILLENEUVE-LOUBET 


Loubet  is  the  only  one  in  this  comer  of  Provence  that 
belongs  to  its  pre-Revolutionary  owners,  but  there  are 
many  centuries  between  feudal  days  and  our  time. 
Castles  remain,  but  history  changes.  The  March-Tripoly 
de  Panisse-Passis  are  not  a  feudal  family,  and  they  do 
not  come  from  the  north.  The  African  part  of  the  name 
is  due  to  an  unproven  claim  of  descent  from  a  French 
consular  official  in  Tripoli  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The 
chateau,  after  a  succession  of  proprietors,  came  to  the 
Panisse  family  through  marriage  with  the  daughter  of 
a  Marseilles  notary,  who  got  the  chateau  by  foreclosing 
a  mortgage.  During  the  Revolutionary  period,  the 
property  was  saved  from  confiscation  by  a  clever  straddle. 
The  owner  stayed  in  France,  and  supported  the  Revolu- 
tion, while  the  son  emigrated  with  the  Bourbons.  The 
peerage  was  created  just  a  hundred  years  ago  by  Louis 
XVIII,  in  reward  for  the  refusal  of  the  Panisses  to  fol- 
low Napoleon  a  second  time  after  the  return  from  Elba." 

Another  pervasive  idea! 

"The  Moon  got  you,"  was  the  laughing  comment  of 
the  Artist. 

Historical  reminiscences  died  hard,  however.  We  dis- 
cussed the  possible  Saracen  origin  of  the  pentagonal 
tower,  and  the  vicissitudes  of  the  castle  during  the 
struggles  between  Mohammedans  and  Christians,  feudal 
lords  and  kings,  Catholics  and  Protestants,  Spaniards  and 
French.  Monsieur  le  Maire  was  a  Bonapartist,  and  he 
insisted  that  the  chief  glory  of  Villeneuve-Loubet  was  the 
association  with  Napoleon. 

[65] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


"When  Napoleon  was  living  at  Nice,"  he  said,  "he 
used  to  come  out  here  often.  Napoleon  thought  that  the 
view  of  sea  and  mountains  from  Villeneuve-Loubet  was 
the  finest  on  the  Riviera.  He  could  stand  up  there  and 
look  out  towards  his  native  island,  and  contemplate  the 
mountains  the  crossing  of  which  was  his  first  great  step 
to  fame.  Napoleon  (and  here  Monsieur  le  Maire  winked 
at  the  Artist)  was  a  man  of  the  sun  seeking  the  north — 
just  like  Caesar,  ho !  ho !" 

The  arrival  of  the  tram,  which  had  recovered  its  equi- 
librium, helped  me  to  recover  mine.  We  said  good  night 
to  Monsieur  le  Maire,  and  before  turning  in  went  out  on 
the  iron  bridge  that  spanned  the  Loup. 

The  river,  swollen  by  the  spring  thaw  and  rains,  had 
overflowed  its  banks,  and  was  swirling  around  willows 
and  poplars.  It  was  not  deep,  and  the  water  flashed  in 
the  moonlight  as  it  rippled  over  the  stones.  There  was 
a  smell  of  fresh-cut  logs.  We  looked  beyond  a  saw- 
mill into  a  gorge  of  pines  that  ended  in  a  transversal 
white  mountain  wall. 

"Bully  placer  ground !"  I  exclaimed. 

The  Artist  leaned  over  the  bridge,  looked  down,  and 
sighed  just  one  word,  "Salmon !" 

We  sought  the  Hotel  Beau-Site  in  silence. 

Monuments  of  men's  making  create  a  diversity  of 
atmospheres  and  call  forth  a  diversity  of  reminiscences. 
They  cause  imagination  to  run  riot  in  history.  But  na- 
ture is  the  same  the  world  over,  and  there  would  be  re- 
actions and  yearnings  if  one  knew  nothing  of  the  past 
[66] 


'■  ;4.^^^'   ^' 


:l'L 


VILLENEUVE-LOUBET 


from  books.  There  is  no  conflict.  Nature  transcends. 
We  dreamed  that  night  not  of  crusaders,  but  of  Idaho 
and  the  Bitter  Root  Rano^e. 


[67] 


VENCE 


[69] 


CHAPTER  V 


Vence 


THE  most  picturesque  bit  of  mountain  railway  on 
the  Riviera  is  the  fourteen  miles  from  Grasse  to 
Vence.  Yielding  to  a  sudden  impulse,  we  took  it  one 
afternoon.  The  train  passed  from  Grasse  through  olive 
groves  and  fig  orchards  and  over  two  viaducts.  A  third 
viaduct  of  eleven  arches  took  us  across  the  Loup.  We 
were  just  at  the  season  when  the  melting  snows  made  a 
roaring  torrent  of  what  was  most  of  the  year  a  little 
stream  lost  in  a  wide  gravel  bed.  The  view  up  the  gorge 
gave  us  the  feeling  of  being  in  the  heart  of  the  moun- 
tains. And  yet  from  the  opposite  windows  of  the  train 
we  could  see  the  Mediterranean.  Then  we  circled  the 
little  town  of  Tourettes  at  the  foot  of  the  Puy  de  Tour- 
ettes,  with  high  cliffs  in  the  background,  and  a  wild 
luxurious  growth  of  aloes  below.  We  almost  circled  the 
village,  crossing  the  ravines  on  either  side  on  viaducts. 
A  sixth  long  viaduct  brought  us  to  Vence.  We  had  a 
rendezvous  that  evening  at  Cannes.  There  was  no  time 
to  stop.  We  kept  on  to  Nice  to  make  the  only  connec- 
tion that  would  get  us  back  to  Cannes. 
[71] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


Afterwards  the  Artist  and  I  spoke  often  of  Vence. 
Twice  we  planned  to  go  to  Vence,  but  found  the  fascina- 
tion of  Villeneuve-Loubet  and  Saint-Paul-du-Var  justi- 
fiable deterrents. 

On  the  terrace  of  our  favorite  cafe  in  the  Alices  de  la 
Liberte  at  Cannes  on  Easter  evening  we  announced  the 
intention  of  making  a  special  trip  to  Vence  the  next  day. 

"Tomorrow  is  Easter  IMonday,  and  the  children  have 
no  school,"  said  the  Artist's  hostess.  "We  shall  make  a 
family  party  of  it,  train  to  Cagnes  where  I  may  have  a 
chance  to  see  your  Mademoiselle  Simone,  a  trout 
luncheon  at  Villeneuve-Loubet  with  the  rest  of  that  bottle 
of  which  you  boys  spoke,  and  Vence  in  the  afternoon." 

The  orders  had  been  given.  There  was  an  early 
morning  stir  at  the  Villa  Etoile,  a  scramble  to  the 
Theoule  railway  station,  and  before  nine  o'clock  we  were 
all  aboard  for  the  hour's  ride  to  Cagnes.  When  we  got 
off  the  train,  there  was  just  one  cocker  available.  He 
looked  at  papa  and  mamma  and  Uncle  Lester  and  the  four 
babies  and  their  nurse,  and  raised  his  hands  to  heaven. 
But  Villeneuve-Loubet  was  not  far  off  and  we  were  care- 
ful to  say  nothing  of  the  afternoon's  program.  Leonie 
and  the  children  were  packed  into  the  carriage.  The  rest 
of  us  followed  afoot. 

Our  cheerful  host  at  Villeneuve-Loubet  greeted  us 
effusively.  He  had  many  holiday  guests,  but  he  remem- 
bered the  Artist  and  me,  and  the  splendid  profit  accruing 
from  every  drink  out  of  the  bottle  only  les  Anglais  called 
for.  There  were  plenty  of  trout,  fresh  sliced  cucumbers, 
[72] 


VENCE 


and  a  special  soup  for  the  kiddies.  The  cocher  was  so 
amenable  to  Leonie's  charms  and  to  drinks  that  cost  less 
than  ours  that  he  consented  to  further  exertion  for  his 
horse.  But  the  climb  to  Vence  was  out  of  the  question 
— a  physical  impossibility,  he  declared.  And  we,  hav- 
ing seen  the  horse  at  rest  and  in  action,  could  only 
sorrowfully  agree.  It  was  too  much  of  a  job  to  ma- 
neuver all  the  children  (the  baby  could  not  walk)  to  the 
tramway  halt,  nearly  a  mile  away,  and  on  and  off  the 
cars.  The  mother  said  that  she  could  not  be  a  good 
sport  to  the  point  of  abandoning  all  her  handicaps  for 
several  hours  in  a  place  where  the  river  flowed  fast  and 
deep.  So  it  was  agreed  that  she  would  have  at  least  the 
excursion  to  Saint-Paul-du-Var,  and  the  Artist  and  I, 
determined  this  time  on  Vence,  would  see  her  the  next 
evening  for  dinner  at  Cannes. 

So  we  made  our  adieux,  and  hurried  off  to  get  the 
tram  at  the  bifurcation  below  the  castle.  Half  an  hour 
later  our  tram  passed  the  carriage  jogging  up  the  hill. 
As  luck  had  it,  we  turned  out  just  then  on  a  switch  to 
let  the  down  car  pass.  The  temptation  of  Vence  was  too 
much  for  Helen.  The  cocher  seemed  a  fatherly  sort  of 
a  man.  There  was  a  quick  consultation  from  tram  to 
carriage.  A  reunion  with  the  handicaps  was  set  for  two 
hours  later  in  front  of  the  triple  gate  of  Saint-Paul-du- 
Var,  and  another  passenger  got  on  the  tram. 

Around  a  curve  we  waved  farewell  to  our  children. 
After  all,  Vence  was  only  three  miles  beyond  Saint-Paul. 
As  we  passed  the  Saint-Paul  halt,  our  old  friend,  the 
[73] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


postman,  was  on  the  platform  to  receive  the  mailbag. 
We  told  him  that  the  kiddies  were  coming,  and  slipped 
him  ten  francs  to  look  after  them  until  our  return. 

"Soyez  tranquilles,  M' sieu-dame ,"  he  reassured  us. 
"Moi,  je  suis  grand' pere." 

Beyond  Saint-Paul  the  tramway  left  the  road  and 
climbed  over  a  viaduct  to  Vence. 

Ventium  Cssaris  was  a  military  base  of  great  impor- 
tance in  the  days  of  imperial  Rome.  It  was  the  central 
commissariat  depot  for  the  armies  in  Gaul,  and  had  a 
forum  and  temples.  During  the  Middle  Ages  it  was  a 
stronghold  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire.  It  stands  on 
the  side  of  a  fertile  hill  more  than  a  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea.  The  site  was  probably  chosen  because  of  the 
wall  of  rocks  on  the  north  which  shelter  it  from  the  mis- 
tral, a  wind  that  the  Romans  found  as  little  to  their  lik- 
ing as  later  interlopers.  In  peace  as  in  war  the  outside 
world  has  never  been  able  to  keep  away  from  the  Riviera. 

The  Artist  announced  his  intention  of  spending  a 
couple  of  days  sketching,  and  left  us  to  seek  a  hotel. 
Helen  and  I  found  that  there  was  no  tram  to  Saint-Paul- 
du-Var  that  would  enable  us  to  pick  up  the  children  in 
time  for  the  train  to  Theoule  unless  we  returned  without 
seeing  Vence.  So  we  decided  to  give  an  hour  to  the 
town  and  walk  back  to  Saint-Paul. 

As  at  Grasse  a  boulevard  runs  along  the  line  of  the 

old  fortifications.     Some  of  the  houses  facing  it  have 

used  the  town  wall  for  foundations  or  are  themselves 

remnants  of  the  wall.     But  at  Vence  the  boulevard  de 

[74] 


y-iM 


^^  *'»^ 


^:i;'l^ 


,#ff 


"Down   the  broad   road   of   red  shale   past   meadows   thick  with  violets' 


VENCE 


I'enceinte  is  circular— a  modest  Ringstrasse,  marking 
without  interruption  the  old  town  from  the  new.  We 
dipped  in  and  out  of  alleys  under  arches,  and  made  a 
turn  of  the  streets  of  the  old  town.  Much  of  the 
medieval  still  survives  in  Vence,  as  in  other  hill  towns 
of  the  Riviera.  But  only  behind  the  cathedral  did  we 
find  a  remnant  of  imperial  Rome.  A  granite  column 
supporting  an  arch,  and  reliefs  and  inscriptions  built  in 
the  north  wall  of  the  cathedral,  are  all  that  we  saw  of 
Vence's  latinity. 

The  cathedral,  however,  is  the  most  interesting  we 
found  on  the  Riviera.  It  is  a  Romanesque  building, 
built  on  the  site  of  the  second-century  temple,  and  its 
tall  battlemented  tower  harks  back  to  a  tenth-century 
chateau  fort.  The  interior  is  striking:  double  aisles, 
simple  nave  with  tiers  of  arches  of  the  tenth  century,  a 
choir  with  richly  carved  oak  stalls,  a  fourth-century 
sarcophagus  for  altar,  and  a  font  and  lectern  of  the 
Italian  Renaissance. 

It  was  just  a  glimpse.  But  sometimes  glimpses  make 
more  vivid  memories  than  longer  acquaintance.  At  the 
end  of  our  hour  we  left  Vence  and  hurried  down  the 
broad  road  of  red  shale  past  meadows  thick  with  violets. 
We  went  through  the  deep  pine-filled  ravine  over  which 
we  had  crossed  on  the  viaduct.  Then  the  climb  to  Saint- 
Paul-du-Var. 

We  might  have  taken  our  time.  Christine  and  Lloyd 
and  Mimi  came  running  to  greet  us,  bringing  with  them 
little  friends  who  had  probably  never  before  played  with 
[75] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


children  from  Paris.  We  did  not  need  to  ask  what  kind 
of  a  time  they  had  been  having.  Children  are  the  true 
cosmopolitans.  Hope  lay  imder  a  tree  on  her  blanket 
playing  with  her  pink  shoes.  Nearby,  at  a  table  in  front 
of  the  Cafe  de  la  Porte,  Leonie  was  treating  the  cocher 
and  the  postman  to  a  glass  of  beer. 

"I  got  bread  and  honey  and  milk  for  the  children's 
gouter,"  explained  Leonie,  "and  Monsieur  le  cocher  and 
I  are  having  ours  with  Monsieur  le  facteur." 

As  the  children  did  not  seem  to  be  tired  and  the  cocher 
was  in  no  hurry,  Helen  and  I  made  a  tour  of  the  walls, 
and  took  a  photograph  of  our  handicaps  and  their  faith- 
ful attendants  in  front  of  the  great  gate  built  by 
Francis  I,  who  prized  Saint-Paul-du-Var  as  the  best 
spot  to  guard  the  fords  of  the  river  against  Charles  V. 

A  reader  of  this  manuscript  declares  that  the  chapter 
on  Vence  ought  to  be  struck  out. 

"They  [I  suppose  she  means  the  home  folks]  will 
never  understand,"  she  insists. 

I  am  adamant. 

"When  they  come  to  the  Riviera,  they  will  under- 
stand," I  answer. 

Between  Saint-Raphael  and  Menton  the  most  sacred 
responsibilities  do  not  weigh  one  down  all  the  time. 


[76] 


MENTON" 


[77] 


CHAPTER  VI 
Menton 

IN  architectural  parlance  the  cornice  is  the  horizontal 
molded  projection  crowning  a  building,  especially 
the  uppermost  member  of  the  entablature  of  an  order, 
surmounting  the  frieze.  The  word  is  also  used  in  moun- 
taineering to  describe  an  overhanging  mass  of  hardened 
snow  at  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  In  the  Maritime  Alps 
it  has  a  striking  figurative  meaning.  There  are  four 
corniches — the  main  roads  along  the  two  sections  of  the 
Riviera,  Menton  to  Nice  and  Theoule  to  Saint-Raphael, 
where  the  mountains  come  right  down  to  the  sea  and  na- 
ture affords  no  natural  routes.  The  Grande  Corniche 
and  the  Petite  Corniche  run  from  Nice  to  Menton,  and 
the  Moyenne  Corniche  from  Nice  to  Monte  Carlo.  The 
Corniche  d'Or  or  Corniche  de  I'Esterel  is  the  new  road 
from  Theoule  to  Saint-Raphael.  The  word  is  incor- 
rectly used,  for  the  most  part,  concerning  the  two  coast 
roads,  the  Petite  Corniche  and  the  Corniche  I'Esterel. 
[79] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


For  although  these  beautiful  roads  do  at  many  points 
stand  high  above  the  sea,  they  descend  as  often  as  pos- 
sible to  connect  with  the  coast  towns.  But  the  analogy 
with  the  architectural  term  is  perfect  in  so  far  as  the 
Grande  Corniche  and  the  Moyenne  Corniche  are  con- 
cerned. At  every  point  these  wonderful  roads,  undis- 
turbed by  tramways  and  unbroken  by  towns  (except  La 
Turbie  on  the  Grande  Corniche  and  Eze  on  the  Moyenne 
Corniche),  you  feel  that  you  are  traveling  along  a  hori- 
zontal molded  projection  above  temples  built  with  hands 
and  the  activities  of  humankind. 

From  Nice  to  the  Italian  frontier  the  railway,  dart- 
ing in  and  out  of  tunnels,  keeps  near  sea  level.  A  small 
branch  climbs  from  Monte  Carlo  to  La  Turbie.  The 
tramway  from  Nice  to  Menton  follows  the  Petite 
Corniche,  with  a  branch  to  Saint-Jean  on  Cap  Ferrat. 

For  tourists,  Nice  is  the  center  of  the  Riviera,  the 
place  to  come  back  to  every  night  after  day  excursions. 
Everything  is  so  near  that  this  is  possible.  Nice  is  the 
terminus  of  railways  and  tramways  east  and  west.  It  is 
the  home  of  the  ubiquitous  Cook.  You  can  buy  all  sorts 
of  excursion  tickets,  and  by  watching  the  bulletin  posted 
in  front  of  the  Cook  office  on  the  Promenade  des 
Anglais,  it  is  possible  to  "cover"  the  Riviera  in  a  fort- 
night. But  this  means  a  constant  rush,  perched  on  a 
high  seat,  crowded  in  with  twenty  others,  on  a  char  a 
bancs,  and  only  a  kaleidoscopic  vision  of  Mediterranean 
blue,  hillside  and  valley  green  and  brown,  roof-top  red, 
wall  gray  and  mountain  white.  At  the  end  of  your  orgy, 
[80] 


jHm  .      ?^2 


'#  f. 


\ 


'  ^^" 

... 

-m 

m: 

/^V 

; 

-,  ,  ,'■: 

••^a 

.  "  ^ 

H.     "     " 

V  f: 

^ 

.......^ 

•^                      -N 

*^4 

.,pPr 

t 

cl-- 

^ 

.>^ 


1^.^ 


H]     y  '    ;  >  {    ^^\  ^^:Z^1.^^'^ 


\ 


'Ancient    Eze    is    on    a    lower    hill    midway    between    you    and    the 
Mediterranean" 


MENTON 


instead  of  distinct  pictures,  you  carry  away  an  impression 
of  the  Riviera  in  which  the  Place  Massena  is  a  concrete 
image  and  the  rest  no  more  than  dancing  bits  of  colored 
glass.  Saint-Raphael  and  Menton  are  the  luncheon 
breaks  of  two  days,  and  the  Grande  Comiche  is  a  beauti- 
ful vague  mountain  road  over  which  you  whizzed. 

And  yet  there  are  those  who  go  to  the  Riviera  every 
year  for  a  daily  ride  over  the  Grande  Corniche,  and  who 
dream  during  ten  months  of  two  months  at  Menton ! 

Sitting  with  our  legs  daggling  over  the  stone  coping 
at  the  entrance  of  the  port  in  Nice,  the  Artist  and  I 
figured  out — on  the  basis  of  just  time  for  a  glimpse  and 
a  few  sketches — how  long  it  would  take  us  to  wander 
through  the  Riviera.  Reserving  March  and  April  each 
year,  we  discovered  that  the  allotted  three  score  and  ten, 
seeing  that  we  had  already  come  to  half  the  span,  would 
be  inadequate.  And  there  were  other  parts  of  the  world ! 
So  we  decided  to  see  what  we  could,  eschew  the  "day 
excursions,"  draw  on  the  memories  of  former  years,  and 
let  it  go  at  that.  Grande  Corniche  and  Moyenne 
Comiche  would  be  explored  afoot  on  sunny  days  and 
gray;  shelter  would  be  sought  at  Menton;  and  on  the 
return  to  Nice,  Monte  Carlo  and  Villefranche  would  be 
the  only  tramway  stops  for  us. 

To  Ventimiglia,  as  if  he  foresaw  what  part  of  the 
Riviera  would  eventually  fall  to  France,  Napoleon  I  was 
the  builder  of  La  Grande  Corniche.  His  engineers,  plan- 
ning for  horse-drawn  vehicles  in  an  age  when  time  was 
not  money,  made  the  ascent  easy  by  striking  inland  for 
[8i] 


RIVIERA  TOAVNS 


several  kilometers  up  from  the  valley  of  the  Paillon  and 
circling  Mont  Gros  and  Mont  Vinaigrier.  For  the  first 
two  miles  you  have  Nice  and  Cimiez  below  you.  Then 
the  road  turns,  passes  the  observatory  of  Bischoffsheim 
(who  won  posthumous  fame  by  his  having  built  the 
house  where  Wilson  lost  the  battle  of  Paris  in  1919), 
and  goes  over  the  Col  des  Quatre  Chemins.  Here  begins 
the  matchless  succession  of  views  of  the  loveliest  portion 
of  the  Riviera  coast.  Below  you  is  the  harbor  of  Ville- 
franche,  between  Montboron,  which  hides  Nice,  and  Cap 
Ferrat  jutting  far  into  the  sea  with  Cap  de  I'Hospice 
breaking  out  to  the  left.  The  sea  is  always  on  your  right 
as  you  continue  to  climb.  Ancient  Eze  is  on  a  lower  hill 
midway  between  you  and  the  Mediterranean.  If  you 
have  made  an  early  start  from  Nice,  La  Turbie  will  come 
most  conveniently  in  sight  a  little  before  noon. 

The  only  town  of  the  Grande  Corniche  high  up  from 
the  sea  is  on  the  line  given  in  ancient  maps  as  the  frontier 
between  Gaul  and  Italy,  and  it  is  evident  that  the  Roman 
road  followed  here  the  route  chosen  by  Napoleon.  For 
here  the  Senate  raised  the  trophaeiim  Augusti  to  com- 
memorate the  subjugation  of  the  Gauls  and  the  new  era 
of  tranquillity  from  invasion  for  the  Empire.  On  its  site 
one  of  the  most  interesting  medieval  towers  in  southern 
France  was  the  ruin  par  excellence  of  the  Riviera  until 
a  few  years  ago.  It  is  now  "restored"  so  well  that  it 
leaves  nothing  to  the  imagination — a  crime  quite  in 
keeping  with  the  spirit  of  the  new  age  of  the  "movies." 
Its  architect  wanted  you  to  see  at  a  glance  just  what  it 
[82] 


MENTON 


used  to  be.  You  feel  that  he  would  have  put  arms  on 
the  Venus  de  Milo!  As  we  stood  there,  a  guide  came 
up  and  began  to  tell  us  the  history  of  the  tower.  We 
moved  over  to  the  terrace.  From  Montboron  to  Bor- 
dighera  the  Riviera  lay  below  us,  a  panorama  which  com- 
manded silence.  Up  came  the  guide  fellow,  and  started 
to  name  each  place. 

"I  am  about  to  commit  murder,"  I  cried. 

"I'll  save  you  the  bother  by  telling  him  to  chase  him- 
self with  this  franc,"  said  the  Artist,  pulling  out  the 
coin.  "If  only  the  restorer  of  the  Tower  of  Augustus 
were  around,  he'd  come  in  for  a  franc  too." 

La  Turbie  is  not  a  town  to  hurry  away  from  after 
lunch.  Its  old  gateways  and  leaning  houses  brought  out 
the  Artist's  pencil.  I  tried  to  explore  the  paths  up  the 
Tete  du  Chien.  Defense  de  penetrer — and  then  selec- 
tions from  the  Code  about  how  spies  are  treated.  The 
same  fate  met  me  on  the  Mont  de  la  Bataille.  France 
may  love  Italy  just  now — but  she  is  taking  no  chances ! 
As  far  as  I  could  judge,  every  high  slope  was  fortified. 
I  had  tea  at  one  of  the  hotels  perched  above  the  town, 
counted  my  money,  and  suggested  to  the  Artist  that  we 
slip  down  to  Monte  Carlo  for  the  night. 

The  next  morning  we  took  the  little  railway  back  to 
La  Turbie  and  continued  our  walk.  From  La  Turbie 
the  Grande  Corniche  makes  a  gradual  descent  behind  the 
principality  of  Monaco  to  Cabbe-Roquebrune,  and  joins 
the  Petite  Corniche  at  Cap  Martin.  Three  miles  farther 
on  the  Promenade  du  Midi  leads  into  Menton.  This  is 
[83] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


the  most  beautiful  stretch  of  the  Grande  Comiche;  and 
it  is  paralleled  by  no  other  road,  as  the  new  Moyenne 
Corniche  ends  at  Monte  Carlo.  The  view  is  before  you 
as  you  go  down.  The  vegetation  becomes  more  tropical. 
You  are  nearer  the  sea,  and  the  feeling  of  dolce  far  niente 
gets  into  your  bones  as  you  approach  Cap  Martin. 

Mont  Agel's  limestone  side  gives  you  back  the  heat  of 
the  sun.  It  is  a  radiator.  No  wonder  lemons  flower 
all  the  year  round,  and  you  discover  on  the  same  tree 
buds,  flowers,  green  and  yellow  fruit.  No  wonder  the 
palms  are  not  out  of  their  setting  as  at  Cannes  and  Nice. 
Locusts,  flourishing  where  there  is  seemingly  no  ground 
to  take  root  in,  live  from  the  air,  and  give  forth  pods 
that  almost  hide  the  leaves  in  their  profusion.  The 
undergrowth  of  myrtle  and  dwarf  ilex  above  becomes 
aloes  and  sarsaparilla  and  wild  asparagus  as  we  go  down 
to  the  sea.  We  have  left  the  cypresses  and  cork-trees, 
and  eucalyptus  struggles  in  our  nostrils  with  orange  and 
lemon.  Even  the  ferns  are  scented!  The  Artist  looks 
with  apathetic  eye  on  the  rocks  and  ruined  castle  of 
Roquebrune.  When  we  reach  Menton  we  are  willing 
to  sink  into  cane-seated  rockers  on  the  Hotel  Bristol 
porch,  call  for  something  in  a  tall  glass  with  ice  in  it, 
and  let  the  morning  walk  count  for  a  day's  journey. 

The  tourists  who  know  Menton  only  as  a  mid-day 
luncheon  break  have  robbed  themselves  of  an  experience 
that  no  other  Riviera  town  offers.  The  Promenade  des 
Anglais  at  Nice  is  interesting  in  the  sense  that  the  Ave- 
nue des  Champs-Elysees  is  interesting.  The  Mediter- 
[84] 


'La   Turbie   is   not   a    town   to   hurry   away   from   after    lunch.       Its 
leaning  houses  brought  out  the  Artist's  pencil" 


MENTON 


ranean  is  accidental — an  unimportant  accessory.  The 
Promenade  du  Midi  at  Menton  is  another  world.  And 
this  other  world,  with  its  other  world  climate,  reveals  it- 
self to  you  with  increasingly  keen  delight,  as  you  ride 
(you  do  not  walk  at  Menton)  around  Cap  Martin,  up 
the  mountain  to  old  Sainte-Agnes,  in  the  gorge  of  Saint- 
Louis,  along  the  Boulevard  du  Caravan,  and  out  to  the 
Ciardino  Hanbury.  You  say  giardino  instead  of  jardin 
because  Mortola  is  just  across  the  Italian  frontier.  The 
eccentric  Englishman  chose  this  spot,  without  regard  to 
political  sovereignty  present  or  future,  as  the  best  place 
to  demonstrate  the  catholicity  of  the  Riviera  climate  to 
tropical  flora.  I  simply  mention  these  drives;  for  you 
do  not  ride  at  Menton  any  more  than  you  walk.  The 
man  who  wants  to  keep  his  energy  and  work  on  the 
Riviera  must  not  go  farther  east  than  Nice. 

But  why  another  world?  And  another  world  even 
from  that  of  the  rest  of  the  French  Riviera?  It  is  partly 
the  climate  and  the  consequent  flora,  but  mostly  the  light. 
The  general  aridity  of  the  Riviera,  with  the  prevalence 
of  everbrowns  and  evergreens,  strikes  unpleasantly  at 
first  the  visitor  from  the  North.  Sunshine  and  riotous 
colors  of  flowers  and  blossoming  trees  do  not  make  up 
for  the  absence  of  water-fed  green.  When  it  rains,  the 
Northerner's  depression  cannot  be  fought  off.  The  chill 
gets  to  his  soul  as  well  as  to  his  bones.  He  prays  for 
the  Sim  he  has  come  south  to  seek.  But  when  the  sun 
returns,  the  dust  annoys  him.     The  high  wind  gets  on  his 


[85] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


The  casual  tourist,  whose  stay  is  brief,  even  if  he  has 
come  in  the  most  favorable  season,  is  "not  so  sure  about 
the  Riviera,  you  know."  He  is  impatient  with  himself 
because,  after  the  first  vivid  impression,  panoramas  and 
landscapes  leave  him  unsatisfied.  There  is  no  compensa- 
tion for  the  absence  of  water-fed  green  in  the  canvas  of 
nature  until  one  becomes  responsive  to  other  colors.  I 
do  not  mean  particular  patches  of  color  in  flowers  and 
blossoms.  These  are  of  a  season.  Often  they  pass  in 
a  week.  The  sun  that  gives  rich  life  kills  quickly.  The 
glory  of  south  lands,  especially  along  the  sea,  is  the  con- 
stant changing  of  colors.  These  colors  you  will  drink  in 
only  when  by  familiarity  you  have  become  sensitive  to 
lights  and  shadows. 

If  you  stay  long  enough  at  a  place  like  Menton  you 
will  be  ready  for  Southern  Italy  and  Greece.  You  will 
be  able  to  drink  in  the  beauty  of  landscapes  without 
foliage.  And  when  you  have  acquired  this  sense,  your 
own  country  will  be  a  new  world  to  you.  Never  again, 
as  long  as  you  live,  will  you  tire  of  any  landscape. 

The  sun  veils  and  unveils  itself  more  often  and  more 
quickly  and  more  unexpectedly  at  Menton  than  at  any 
place  on  the  Riviera.  And  the  setting  for  watching  the 
changes  is  perfect.  Menton  can  say,  in  the  words  of 
the  old  sundial. 


"Son  figlia  del  sole, 
Eppure  son  ombre." 

[86] 


MONTE  CARLO 


CHAPTER  VII 
Monte  Carlo 

SAN  MARINO  and  Andorra  have  maintained  their 
independence  from  the  Middle  Ages,  but  as  re- 
publics. The  only  reigning  families  who  kept  their 
domains  from  being  engulfed  in  the  evolution  of  modem 
Europe  are  those  of  Liechtenstein  and  Monaco.  What 
will  happen  to  Liechtenstein  with  the  disappearance  of 
the  Hapsburg  Empire  is  uncertain.  Wedged  in  between 
the  Vorarlberg  portion  of  the  Austrian  Tyrol  and 
Switzerland,  Liechtenstein  is  almost  as  out  of  the  way,  as 
forgotten,  as  unimportant,  as  San  Marino  and  Andorra. 
Monaco  is  in  a  different  situation.  The  smallest  country 
in  the  world  covers  only  eight  square  miles,  and  never 
was  very  much  larger  than  it  is  today.  Until  half  a  cen- 
tury ago  Monaco  was  an  Italian  principality  and  not  at 
all  an  anomaly.  For  Italy  had  been  broken  up  into 
small  political  units  from  the  Roman  days.  At  the  time 
[89] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


of  the  unification  of  Italy,  the  Italians  had  to  part  with 
a  portion  of  the  Riviera  to  France.  Monaco  lost  a  bit 
of  her  coast  line — the  Menton  district — and  became  an 
enclave  in  France. 

Because  of  the  traditional  friendship  of  the  Grimaldi 
family  for  France,  the  principality  was  saved  from  ex- 
tinction when  the  protectorate  of  Savoy  (established  by 
the  Congress  of  Vienna)  was  withdrawn  in  1861.  In 
fact,  the  male  line  of  the  Grimaldi  died  out  just  after 
the  War  of  Spanish  Succession,  and  the  present  house 
is  of  French  descent.  But  whether  Grimaldi  or  Matig- 
non,  the  princes  of  Monaco  have  fought  for  a  thousand 
years  on  the  side  of  France  against  the  British  espe- 
cially, but  also  against  the  Italians,  Spanish  and  Ger- 
mans. As  unhesitatingly  as  his  predecessors  had  always 
done.  Prince  Albert  espoused  the  cause  of  France  in 
1914;  his  son  fought  through  the  war  in  the  French 
army. 

And  there  is  another  reason  for  the  continued  inde- 
pendence of  Monaco.  Republics  have  no  sense  of  grat- 
itude. After  the  fall  of  Napoleon  III  Monaco  would 
hardly  have  survived  save  for  the  gambling  concession. 
Four  years  before  the  Franco-Prussian  War,  a  casino 
and  hotels  built  on  the  Roche  des  Spelugues  had  been 
named  Monte  Carlo  in  honor  of  the  reigning  prince. 
The  concession,  granted  to  a  Frenchman,  Fran9ois 
Blanc,  was  too  valuable  to  spoil  by  having  Monaco  come 
under  French  law!  The  Republic  tolerated  Monaco — 
on  condition  that  no  French  officer  in  unifonji  and  no 
[90] 


MONTE  CARLO 


inhabitant  of  the  Departement  des  Alpes-Maritimes 
(which  surrounds  Monaco)  be  allowed  in  the  gaming 
rooms  of  the  Casino.  It  was  also  agreed  that  except 
in  petty  cases  handled  in  a  magistrate's  court  all  crimes 
should  be  judged  by  French  law  and  the  criminals  de- 
livered for  punishment  to  France. 

The  arrangement  is  admirable  from  the  French  point 
of  view.  The  Riviera  has  its  gambling  place  of  world- 
wide fame  with  no  opprobrium  or  responsibility  attach- 
ing to  the  French  Government.  The  extra-territoriality 
does  not  extend  to  criminals.  The  inhabitants  of  the 
neighboring  French  towns  are  not  demoralized  by  the 
opportunity  to  gamble.  French  army  officers  are  pro- 
tected from  corruption.  It  is  presumed  that  the  rest  of 
the  world,  which  can  afford  a  trip  to  the  principality, 
will  be  able  to  take  care  of  its  own  morals! 

The  Monegasques  are  similarly  protected  by  their  sov- 
ereign. They,  too,  are  forbidden  to  gamble.  They 
profit  from  the  concession  in  that  there  are  no  taxes  to 
pay  in  the  rich  little  principality  and  in  that  several  hun- 
dred thousand  foreigners  come  every  year  to  give  big 
prices  for  every  little  service.  But  they  run  no  risk  of 
being  caught  by  the  snare  they  set  for  others.  Prince 
and  people,  the  Monegasques  are  like  the  wise  old  bar- 
tender, who  said  in  a  tone  of  virtuous  self-satisfaction, 
*T  never  drink." 

When  Tennyson,  traveling  along  the  Grande  Corniche, 
saw  Monaco,  it  was  of  the  old  medieval  principality  that 
he  could  write : 

[91] 


RIVIEHA  TOWNS 


"How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glow'd." 
The  old  walled  town,  on  its  promontory,  must  indeed , 
have  seemed  a  gem  in  an  unsurpassed  setting  in  the  i 
time  of  Tennyson.     For  the  little  Port  of  Hercules  and 
the  other  promontory,  Spelugues,  were  tree-  and  shrub- 
and  flower-lined.    There  was  nothing  to  break  the  spell 
of  old  Monaco.     Now,  alas,  the  Casino  and  hotels  of 
Monte  Carlo  cover  Spelugues,  and  between  the  prom- 
ontories La  Condamine  has  sprung  up,  a  town  of  red- 
roofed  villas,  larger  than  either  Monaco  or  Monte  Carlo 
and  forming  with  them  an  unbroken  mass  of  buildings. 
Monaco  is  simply  an  end  of  the  city,  distinct  from  the 
rest  of  the  agglomeration  only  because  it  is  high  up  and 
on  a  cape  jutting  out  into  the  sea. 

Unless  one  went  up  to  explore  the  old  town,  one  would 
not  realize  that  it  was  more  than  the  palace  with  its 
garden  and  the  post-Tennyson  cathedral,  too  prominent 
for  the  good  of  the  medieval  spell.  La  Condamine  and 
Monte  Carlo  have  reached  the  limit  of  expansion.  In 
front  is  the  sea,  behind  the  steep  wall  of  the  mountain. 
The  principality  is  all  city.  But  the  mountains  and  sea 
prevent  the  exclusion  of  nature  from  the  picture.  De- 
spite the  modem  growth  of  Monaco,  from  the  Grande 
Comiche  the  words  of  the  poet  still  hold  good.  Mo- 
naco is  no  longer  a  predominantly  medieval  picture  per- 
haps— but  it  is  still  a  gem. 

The  old  town  is  as  attractive  in  walls  and  buildings 
as  other  rock  villages  of  the  Riviera.    Three  main  streets, 
[92] 


V   .  ,.  .>"^^^%-Ki 


^^  V  ..'5^ 


-%fl 


'5^, 


The   strength   of   Monaco   is    the   weakness   of   the   world' 


MONTE  CARLO 


Rue  Basse,  Rue  du  Milieu  and  Rue  des  Briques,  run 
parallel  from  the  Place  du  Palais  out  on  the  promon- 
tory. They  are  crossed  by  the  narrowest  of  city  alleys, 
d,  I'ltalienne,  and  to  the  right  of  the  Rue  des  Briques, 
around  the  Cathedral,  is  the  rest  of  the  town.  Nowhere 
does  the  old  town  extend  to  the  sea. 

On  the  sites  of  the  ancient  fortifications  the  present 
ruler,  Prince  Albert,  has  made  gardens  and  built  mu- 
seums for  his  collections  of  prehistoric  man  and  of 
ocean  life.  One  ought  never  to  dip  into  museums.  If 
you  have  lots  and  lots  of  time  (I  mean  weeks,  not  hours), 
or  if  you  have  special  interest  in  a  definite  field  of  study, 
museums  may  be  profitable.  But  "doing"  museums  is 
the  last  word  in  tourist  folly.  Yes,  I  know  that  skele- 
tons and  the  cutest  little  fish  are  in  those  museums.  I 
am  not  ashamed  to  confess  that  I  never  darkened  their 
doors.  Life  is  sfiort,  and  while  the  Artist  revels  in  his 
subjects,  I  find  more  interest  in  studying  the  living  Mone- 
gasques  than  their — and  our — negroid  ancestors. 

For  there  is  a  separate  race,  with  its  own  patois,  in 
Monaco.  You  would  never  spot  it  in  the  somewhat 
Teutonic  cosmopolitanism  of  the  Condamine  and  Monte 
Carlo  tradesmen  and  hotel  servants.  It  is  not  apparent 
in  the  impassive  croupiers  of  the  Casino.  But  within  a 
few  hundred  yards,  in  half  a  dozen  streets  and  lanes, 
the  physiognomy,  the  mentality,  the  language  of  the 
people  make  you  realize  that  regarding  Monaco  as  a 
separate  country  is  not  wholly  a  polite  fiction  to  relieve 
the  French  Government  of  the  responsibility  for  the 
[931 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


Casino.  These  people  are  different,  children  as  well  as 
grown-ups.  They  are  neither  French  nor  Italian,  Pro- 
vengal  nor  Catalan,  but  as  distinct  as  mountain  Basques 
are  from  French  and  Spanish.  It  is  not  a  racial  group 
distinction,  as  with  the  Basques.  In  blood,  the  Mone- 
gasques  are  affiliated  to  their  Provengal  and  Italian 
neighbors. 

What  one  sees  in  the  old  town  of  Monaco  is  a  con- 
firmation of  the  assertion  of  many  historians  that  na- 
tionality, in  our  modern  political  sense  of  the  word,  and 
patriotism,  as  a  mass  instinct  shared  by  millions,  are 
phenomena  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Steam  transpor- 
tation, obligatory  primary  education,  universal  military 
service,  are  the  factors  that  have  developed  national  con- 
sciousness, and  the  exigencies  and  opportunities  and  ad- 
vantages of  the  industrial  era  have  furnished  the  motive 
for  binding  people  together  in  great  political  organisms. 
Today  if  there  were  no  outside  interests  working 
against  the  solidarity  of  human  beings  leading  a  common- 
wealth existence  in  the  same  country,  the  political  or- 
ganism would  soon  make  the  race  rather  than  the  race 
the  political  organism. 

San  Remo  and  Menton  and  Monaco  are  Riviera  towns 
all  within  a  few  miles  of  each  other.  People  of  the 
same  origin  have  three  political  allegiances.  In  half  an 
hour  your  automobile  will  traverse  the  territories  of 
three  nations.  Italians  and  French  fight  under  differ- 
ent flags  and  were  within  an  ace  of  being  lined  against 
each  other  in  the  war.  Monegasques  do  not  fight  at 
[94] 


MONTE  CARLO 


all.  Taxes  and  tariff  boundaries,  schools  and  military 
obligations,  make  the  differences  between  the  three  peo- 
ples. Put  them  all  under  the  same  dispensation  and 
where  would  be  your  races? 

In  the  old  days  the  raison  d'etre  of  the  principality  was 
the  power  to  prey  upon  commerce.  From  their  fortress 
on  the  promontory  the  Grimaldi  organized  the  Mone- 
gasques  to  levy  tolls  on  passing  ships.  Italy  was  not  a 
united  country.  France  had  not  yet  extended  her  fron- 
tiers to  the  Riviera.  This  little  corner  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean escaped  the  Juggernaut  of  developing  political 
unity  that  crushed  the  life  out  of  a  dozen  other  feudal 
robber  states.  And  when  the  logical  moment  for  disap- 
pearance arrived,  Monte  Carlo  saved  Monaco,  Another 
means  of  preying  upon  others  was  happily  discovered. 
The  Monegasques  abandoned  pistols  and  cutlasses  for 
little  rakes.  The  descendants  of  those  who  stood  on  the 
poops  of  ships  now  sit  at  the  ends  of  green  tables.  The 
gold  still  pours  in,  however,  and  no  law  reaches  those 
who  take  it. 

There  is  this  difference:  you  no  longer  empty  >our 
pockets  to  the  Monegasques  under  compulsion,  and  the 
battlements  of  old  Monaco  play  no  part  in  your  losses. 
The  proverb  dearest  to  American  hearts  says  that  a 
sucker  is  born  every  minute.  It  is  incomplete,  that 
proverb.  It  should  be  rounded  out  with  the  axiom  that 
at  some  minute  every  person  born  is  a  sucker. 

So  I  look  over  to  the  great  white  building  which  is  the 
salvation  of  the  Monegasques — their  symbol  of  freedom 
[95] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


from  taxes  and  military  service — and  know  that  the 
strength  of  Monaco  is  the  weakness  of  the  world.  I  re- 
turn to  the  Place  du  Palais.  The  Artist  is  reluctantly- 
strapping  up  his  tools.  We  glance  for  a  brief  moment 
at  the  best  sunset  view  on  the  Riviera.  Ships  sail  by  un- 
molested. No  more  have  they  fear  of  the  Tete  du  Chien 
and  of  the  huge  stone  boulct  that  Fort  Antoine  used  to 
lance  if  a  merchantman  dared  to  be  deaf  to  the  call  of 
the  galley  darting  forth  from  the  Port  of  Hercules.  But 
we? 

The  Artist's  fingers  are  nimble  with  the  buckle  after  a 
day  with  the  pencil.  Pipe  is  filled  from  pouch  with  an 
inimitably  deft  movement  of  one  hand.  Reluctant  is 
generally  the  right  word  to  use  when  I  speak  of  the  Artist 
leaving  his  work.  I  am  not  so  sure  now.  As  I  hope,  he 
does  not  suggest  a  west-bound  tram  at  the  foot  of  the 
Palais  or  the  6 140  train ;  he  says, 

"If  we  alternate  eighteen  and  thirty-six  this  evening, 
putting  by  half  each  time  we  win — " 

"Like  that  English  old  maid  we  saw  last  week,"  I 
interrupted,  "who  doubled  just  once  instead  of  splitting. 
I  can  see  the  drop  of  the  jaw  now.  Even  without  the 
false  teeth,  it  w^ould  have  been  hideous." 

"On  the  red  then  as  long  as  we  last,"  conceded  the 
Artist,  who  knew  my  horror  of  complicated  figure 
systems,  "and  there's  the  sign." 

He  pointed  to  the  red  fringe  that  lit  up  fading  Cap 
Martin. 

"If  we  do  not  get  over  soon,"  I  answered,  "black  will 
[96] 


MONTE  CARLO 


be  the  latest  tip  of  nature."  The  Riviera  towns  under 
the  lee  of  mountains  do  not  have  a  lingering  twilight. 

But  when  we  had  finished  dinner  an  affiche  announcing 
Atda  turned  us  from  the  Salles  de  Jeu  to  the  Salle  du 
Theatre.  To  most  people  gambling  is  a  pastime  not 
taken  seriously.  Only  when  it  is  a  passion  does  one  find 
in  it  the  exclusive  attraction  of  Monte  Carlo.  This  is 
proved  by  the  excellence  of  Monte  Carlo  opera.  No 
metropolis  boasts  of  a  better  orchestra  and  chorus;  and 
the  most  famous  singers  are  always  eager  to  appear  at 
Monte  Carlo. 

After  Paris,  where  the  war  had  affected  vitally  the 
quality  and  variety  of  our  music,  it  was  an  evening  of 
deep  enjoyment.  And  we  had  more  than  just  enough 
put  aside  for  car  fare  when  we  bought  our  tickets  for 
Nice. 


[97] 


yiLLEFRANCHE 


[99] 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ViLLEFRANCHE 

DURING  the  heat  of  the  war,  shortly  after  the 
intervention  of  the  United  States,  I  wrote  a  maga- 
zine article  setting  forth  for  American  readers  the  claims 
of  France  to  Alsace-Lorraine  and  trying  to  explain  why 
the  French  felt  as  they  did  about  Alsace-Lorraine.  Of 
course  I  spoke  of  Strasbourg  and  Mulhouse ;  but  a  copy- 
reader,  faithfully  making  all  speUings  confgrtr^  to  the 
Century  Dictionary,  changed  my  MS.  reading  to  Stress-* 
burg  and  Mulhaiisen.  Can  you  imagine  my  horror  when 
I  saw  those  awful  German  names  staring  out  at  me  under 
my  own  signature — and  in  an  article  espousing  the  side 
of  France  in  the  Alsace-Lorraine  controversy?  Perhaps 
not — unless  you  understand  the  feeling  of  the  actual 
possessor  and  the  aspirant  to  possession  of  border  and 
other  moot  territories.  "By  their  spelling  ye  shall  know 
them  1"  is  their  cry.    Later,  I  happened  to  be  in  America 

[lOl] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


when  that  dear  good  faithful  copy-reader  changed  my 
Bizerte  to  the  dictionary's  Bizerta  in  an  article  on  Tunis, 
and  was  able  to  go  to  the  mat  with  him.  I  explained 
that  the  spelling  was  an  essential  part  of  the  political 
tenor  of  the  article. 

All  this  I  repeated  to  the  wife  and  critic  combined  in 
one  delightful  but  Ulster-minded  person  who  insisted 
that  in  English  Menton  must  be  spelled  Mentone. 

"You  write  Marseilles  instead  of  Marseille  and  put  the 
*s'  on  Lyon  too :  I've  seen  you  do  it !"  she  cried.  "And 
the  French  call  London  Londres!" 

"But  those  cities  happen  not  to  be  in  terre  irredente," 
I  explained.  "Menton  lies  too  near  the  Italian  frontier 
for  a  friend  of  France  to  call  it  Mentone,  whatever  the 
English  usage  may  be.  If  we  retain  Mentone,  why  have 
we  abandoned  Nizza  for  Nice,  Eza  for  Eze,  Roccabruna 
for  Roquebrune,  Monte  Calvo  for  Mont  Chauve,  Testa 
del  Can  for  Tete  du  Chien,  Villa  Franca  for  Ville- 
f ranche  ?" 

"Smce  you  have  at  last  arrived  at  Villef ranche,  you 
had  better  start  your  chapter,"  was  her  woman's  answer. 

Ycu  may  h?.ve  a  confused  picture,  you  may  even  for- 
get many  places  you  have  visited  in  your  travels,  but 
Villef  ranche  ?  Never!  Whether  you  have  first  seen 
Villef  ranche  as  you  came  around  the  corner  of  Mont- 
boron  from  Nice  or  across  the  neck  of  Cap  Ferrat  from 
Beaulieu  on  the  Petite  Corniche,  as  you  came  through  the 
Col  des  Quatre  Chemins  on  the  Grande  Corniche,  or  as 
you  climbed  up  behind  Fort  Montalban  on  the  Moyenne 
[102] 


f^-^'rH  ' 


z^ 


■A 


f^^ 


;^^' 


•Medieval      streets      and      buildings      have      almost 
disappeared" 


VILLEFRANCHE 


Corniche,  the  memory  is  equally  indelible.  But  each 
corniche  gives  a  different  impression  of  the  only  natural 
harbor  on  the  Riviera.  The  Petite  Corniche,  which 
mounts  rather  high  around  Montboron,  is  the  near  view. 
You  see  only  the  rode  with  Cap  Ferrat  as  a  background. 
Approaching  in  the  opposite  direction,  Montboron  is  the 
background.  On  the  Moyenne  Corniche  the  rode  comes 
gradually  into  your  field  of  vision.  You  are  way  above 
the  sea,  but  the  harbor  still  forms  the  principal  part  of 
the  water  foreground  in  the  picture.  On  the  Grande 
Corniche,  where  the  Riviera  coast  from  Cap  d'Antibes 
to  Cap  Martin  is  before  you,  and  the  Mediterranean  rises 
to  meet  the  sky,  every  outstanding  feature  of  the  picture 
is  a  cape  or  town,  fortification  or  lighthouse,  except  at 
Villefranche.  Here  the  land  is  the  setting.  The  water 
of  the  harbor,  changing  as  you  look  to  green  and  back 
to  blue  until  you  are  not  sure  which  is  the  color,  is  the 
feature  that  attracts  and  holds  you.  Montboron,  the 
littoral  and  Cap  Ferrat  are  as  secondary  as  the  prongs 
and  ring  which  hold  a  precious  stone. 

The  water  edge  of  the  harbor  has  become  conven- 
tionalized to  a  large  extent  by  the  artificial  stone  wall 
built  at  the  inner  end  and  part-way  along  the  Montboron 
slope,  to  make  possible  railway  and  carriage  road,  and 
by  the  quays  and  breakwaters.  But  enough  of  the  unim- 
proved line  remains  to  indicate  how  the  harbor  must 
have  looked  before  the  masons  got  to  work.  The  rocks 
of  Villefranche  are  copper  with  streaks  of  brown-gray 
that  change  in  depth  of  color  as  the  sunlight  changes  in 
[i«3] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


intensity.  Water  and  rocks  are  not  afraid  to  compete 
with  flowers  and  trees  and  mountain  shades  for  the 
Artist's  attention.  Villefranche  as  a  maritime  picture 
wins.  And  yet  foliage  and  flora  are  no  mean  rivals. 
Turning  the  point  of  Montboron  from  Nice  has  brought 
you  from  the  climate  where  many  southland  growths 
are  exotic  to  the  beginning  of  the  tropical  portion  of  the 
Riviera  which  extends  into  Italy,  with  Menton  and 
Bordighera  as  its  most  typical  spots. 

Villefranche  comes  close  after  Menton — and  ahead  of 
Beaulieu  and  Monte  Carlo  and  Condamine — in  the  claim 
to  a  perennial  touch  of  the  south.  From  Montboron  to 
the  hills  east  of  Oneglia  the  mountain  wall  protects  from 
the  north  wind  and  radiates  the  sun.  But  there  is  no 
deep  harbor  like  that  of  Villefranche :  and  no  other  place 
has  a  Cap  Martin  to  form  a  windshield  from  strong  sea 
breezes. 

Climate  as  much  as  the  safe  anchorage  attracted  pirates. 
From  the  Caliph  Omar  to  the  last  of  the  Deys  of  Algiers, 
Mohammedan  corsairs  swept  the  Mediterranean.  Be- 
cause the  Maritime  Alps  deprived  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Riviera  of  retreat  to  or  succor  from  the  hinterland,  this 
coast  was  the  joy  of  Saracens  and  Moors,  Berbers  and 
Turks.  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  up  to  a  hundred  years 
ago  the  Riverains — the  inhabitants  of  all  the  Mediter- 
ranean littoral,  in  fact,  from  Gibraltar  to  Messina — were 
constantly  in  danger  of  corsair  raids  just  as  our  Ameri- 
can pioneer  ancestors  were  of  Indian  raids.  The  lay  of 
the  land  and  the  lack  of  a  powerful  suzerain  state  to  de- 
[104] 


VILLEFRANCHE 


fend  them  made  the  Riverains  facile  prey.  Villefranche 
afforded  the  easiest  landing.  Try  to  climb  up  from 
Villefranche  over  crags  and  through  stone-paved  and 
rock-lined  ravines  to  the  Moyenne  Comiche,  and  then 
on  to  the  higher  mountain-slopes,  and  you  can  imagine 
how  difficult  it  was  to  get  away  from  raiders,  and  why 
the  Barbary  pirates  took  a  full  bag  of  luckless  Riverains 
on  every  raid.  You  comprehend  the  raison  d'etre  of  the 
fortified  hill  towns,  and  Eze,  perched  on  her  cliff,  has 
a  new  meaning  as  you  look  down  on  Villefranche.  This 
fastness  was  held  by  the  Saracens  long  after  the  crescent 
yielded  elsewhere  to  the  cross — and  then  became  a  fre- 
quent refuge  for  the  descendants  of  the  victors  in  the 
medieval  struggle. 

From  the  moment  the  French  entered  Algiers  at  the 
beginning  of  the  July  Monarchy,  they  felt  that  their 
claim  to  the  gratitude  of  the  Riverains  justified  the  an- 
nexation of  a  portion  of  the  Riviera.  The  treaty  that 
extended  French  sovereignty  to  beyond  Menton  was 
signed  at  Villefranche,  and  immediately  the  little  harbor 
was  transformed  into  a  French  naval  port.  Until  war- 
ships became  floating  fortresses  Villefranche  was  useful 
to  France.  Now  it  sees  only  torpedo-boats  and  de- 
stroyers, and  the  lack  of  direct  communication  with  the 
interior  has  prevented  its  commercial  development. 
Better  an  artificial  breakwater  with  no  Alps  behind  than 
a  natural  harbor  with  a  Cap  Ferrat. 

Occasionally  a  huge  ocean  liner,  chartered  by  an 
American  tourist  agency  for  an  Eastern  Mediterranean 
[105] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


tour,  drops  into  Villefranche  roadstead.  These  chance 
visits,  to  give  the  tourists  a  day  at  Nice  and  Monte  Carlo, 
demonstrate  that  Villefranche  could  be  a  port  of  call  for 
the  leviathans,  commercial  and  naval,  of  the  twentieth 
century.  How  much  easier  it  would  be  to  go  to  the 
Riviera  directly  from  London  and  New  York,  instead  of 
having  a  wearisome  train  journey  added  to  the  ocean 
voyage!  But  freights  pay  a  large  part  of  passenger 
rates,  and  the  routing  from  great  port  to  great  port  is  as 
rigid  and  unalterable  as  the  fact  that  a  straight  line  is 
not  the  shortest  distance  between  two  points  on  land. 
Trains  and  ships  must  pass  by  way  of  great  centers  of 
population. 

A  naval  cemetery  is  the  memorial  of  Villefranche's 
naval  past  in  the  last  brilliant  decade  of  the  Second 
Empire  and  the  early  years  of  the  Third  Republic.  A 
little  American  corner,  which  our  Paris  Memorial  Day 
Committee  never  forgets,  bears  witness  to  the  period 
when  the  American  flag  was  known  everywhere  in  the 
Mediterranean.  We  used  to  have  the  lion's  share  of  the 
carrying  trade,  and  Villefranche  was  a  frequent  port  of 
call  for  American  warships.  Now  we  have  rarely  even 
single  warships  or  freighters  in  the  Mediterranean.  The 
only  American  passenger  line  that  serves  Mediterranean 
ports  is  the  old  Turkish  Hadji  Daoud  Line  of  five  small 
and  dirty  Levantine  ships,  which  ply  along  the  coast  of 
Asia  Minor  and  in  and  out  of  the  Greek  islands,  camou- 
flaged under  our  flag. 

The  old  town  of  Villefranche  is  on  the  western  side  of 
[io6] 


VILLEFRANCHE 


the  harbor  between  the  Petite  Corniche  and  the  water. 
Like  all  Riviera  towns  on  a  main  road  it  has  grown 
rapidly  and  medieval  streets  and  buildings  have  almost 
disappeared,  giving  way  to  the  banal  architecture  of  the 
end  of  the  nineteenth  century.  The  garish  brick  villas 
of  the  head  of  the  gulf  are  excrescences  in  their  lovely 
garden  setting.  But  after  one  has  reached  the  eastern 
side  of  the  harbor  and  gone  through  Pont  Saint  Jean,  the 
tramway  road,  with  its  noise  and  dust  and  variegated 
bourgeois  fantasies,  can  be  abandoned. 

If  we  except  Cap  Martin,  no  Riviera  walks  are  lovelier 
than  those  of  Cap  Ferrat.  On  the  Villefranche  side, 
until  you  have  passed  through  Saint  Jean,  the  alternative 
to  the  tramway  road  is  an  inhospitable  though  tantalizing 
lane.  For  large  estates,  shut  off  by  walls  and  hedges, 
are  between  you  and  the  harbor.  Unless  you  are  lucky 
enough  to  know  one  of  the  owners,  you  will  not  see  the 
harbor  of  Villefranche  from  the  best  of  the  lower 
vantage  points.  This  side  of  Villefranche  is  so  sheltered 
that  one  resident,  an  American,  has  been  able  to  trans- 
form his  garden  into  a  bit  of  old  Japan  where  the  cherry 
trees  blossom  in  Nippon  profusion  and  colors. 

It  is  best  to  pass  across  the  cape,  not  turning  in  at 
the  tramway  bifurcation,  until  you  reach  the  Promenade 
Maurice-Rouvier,  which  skirts  the  Anse  des  Fourmis 
along  the  sea  from  Beaulieu  to  Saint  Jean.  After  you 
have  reached  Saint  Jean  the  peninsula  is  before  you.  A 
maze  of  superb  roads  tempt  you,  circling  the  fort  several 
hundred  feet  above  sea  level,  crossing  the  peninsula  on 
[  107  ] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


the  slopes  of  the  fort,  and  following  the  sea.  Return- 
ing to  Saint  Jean,  there  is  still  another  walk  directly- 
ahead  of  you  to  the  east.  The  Cap  du  Saint  Hospice 
is  pine-clad,  with  a  sixteenth-century  tower  at  its  end. 

The  Artist  and  I  made  a  mistake  of  twelve  hours  in 
our  visit  to  Saint  Hospice.  We  should  have  come  in 
the  morning  for  the  sunrise.  To  remedy  the  error  we 
decided  to  spend  the  night  at  the  Hotel  du  Pare  Saint 
Jean.     But  the  sun  got  up  long  before  we  did. 

"Our  usual  luck,"  said  the  Artist  with  a  grin  that  had 
nothing  of  regret  in  it. 


[io8] 


NICE 


[109] 


l-i'lfl 


CHAPTER  IX 


Nice 


UNLESS  the  traveler  has  some  special  reason  for 
starting  at  another  point,  he  first  becomes  ac- 
quainted with  the  Riviera  at  Nice,  and  radiates  from 
Nice  in  his  exploration  of  the  coast  and  hinterland.  The 
Artist  confessed  to  me  that  in  student  days  the  Riviera 
meant  Nice  to  him,  with  the  inevitable  visit  to  lay  a  gold 
piece  on  the  table  at  Monte  Carlo.  And  it  was  Nice  of 
the  Carnival  and  Mardi-Gras.  I  in  turn  made  a  similar 
avowal.  We  knew  well  the  Promenade  des  Anglais,  the 
Casino  and  the  Jardin  Public  opposite,  the  Place  Massena 
beyond  the  garden,  where  you  take  a  tram  or  a  char  a 
banc  to  almost  anywhere,  and  the  Avenue  de  la  Gare. 
The  Artist  had  the  advantage  of  me  in  his  intimate 
sketching  knowledge  of  the  old  Italian  city  back  from  the 
Quai  du  Midi,  while  I  knew  better  than  he  the  Avenue 
de  la  Gare.  How  many  times  have  I  pushed  a  baby 
[III] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


carriage  up  and  down  that  street  while  my  wife  shopped ! 

Nice  was  to  us  a  resort,  cosmopolitan  like  other 
famous  playgrounds  of  the  world,  and  where  one  strictly 
on  pleasure  bent  had  the  same  kind  of  a  time  he  would 
have  at  Aix-les-Bains  or  Deauville,  Wiesbaden  or 
Ostend,  Brighton  or  Atlantic  City.  You  strolled  among 
crowds,  you  bought  things  you  did  not  want,  you  could 
not  get  away  from  music,  you  danced  and  went  to  the 
theater  or  opera,  and  you  spent  much  too  much  of  your 
time  in  hotels  and  restaurants.  If  you  went  on  ex- 
cursions, you  enjoyed  them,  of  course.  But  you  always 
hurried  back  to  Nice  in  order  not  to  miss  doing  some- 
thing of  exactly  the  same  kind  that  you  could  have  done 
any  day  in  the  place  you  came  from. 

You  have  to  give  Nice  time,  and  get  out  of  your  rut, 
before  you  awaken  to  its  unique  characteristics.  Then, 
if  you  detach  yourself  from  the  amusement-seekers,  the 
time-killers,  the  apathetic,  the  bored,  the  blase  and  the 
conscientious  tourists,  you  begin  to  realize  that  the 
metropolis  of  the  Riviera  (including  its  suburbs  and 
Monte  Carlo)  is  a  world  in  itself — an  inexhaustible 
reservoir  for  exploration  and  reflection.  Because  it  is 
the  only  place  in  Europe  where  Americans  (North  and 
South)  can  honestly  say  that  they  feel  at  home,  because 
it  was  made  for  and  by  everybody  and  caters  to  every- 
body, Nice  stands  the  test  of  cosmopolitanism.  Every 
great  capital  and  every  seaport  at  the  cross-roads  of 
world  trade  is  cosmopolitan,  but  in  a  narrower  sense  than 
Nice.     Capitals  and  seaports  have  the  general  character, 

[112] 


"Italian  in  blood  and   culture  and  instincts' 


NICE 


in  the  last  analysis  the  atmosphere,  of  the  country  they 
administer  and  serve.  None  has  the  sans  patrie  stamp 
of  Nice.  If  Edward  Everett  Hale  had  allowed  his  hero 
to  go  to  Nice,  the  man  without  a  country  would  not  have 
felt  alone  in  the  world. 

I  was  on  the  Suez  Canal  when  the  Germans  heralded 
the  Verdun  offensive.  I  hurried  back  to  France,  and 
spent  a  couple  of  days  wath  my  wife  at  Nice  before  go- 
ing on  to  the  front.  They  w^ere,  perhaps,  the  most 
critical  days  of  the  war,  when  one  watched  the  com- 
munique with  the  same  intensity  as  one  tried  to  read  hope 
into  serious  bulletins  from  a  loved  one's  bedside.  After 
leaving  Nice,  I  discovered  that  the  pall  of  death  did  hang 
over  France.  But  in  Nice  there  seemed  to  be  no  mass 
instinct  of  national  danger,  no  sickening  anxiety.  On 
the  Avenue  de  la  Gare  I  noticed  hundreds  pass  by  the 
newspaper  bulletins  without  displaying  enough  interest 
to  stop  and  read. 

Two  years  later,  at  another  critical  moment  when  the 
Germans  were  once  more  closing  in  on  Paris  and  bom- 
barding the  city  with  the  long-distance  cannon,  I  spoke 
at  the  Eldorado.  The  meeting,  organized  by  the  Prefet 
and  Maire,  drew  a  large  and  sympathetic  audience. 
Among  residents  and  visitors  are  to  be  found  thousands 
of  intense  patriots.  But  when  I  left  the  theater  and 
walked  back  to  my  hotel,  I  realized  that  Nice  in  191 8 
was  like  Nice  in  19 16.  The  population  as  a  whole, 
inhabitants  and  guests,  had  no  French  national  con- 
sciousness. When  I  delivered  the  same  message  in  the 
[113] 


RIVIERA  TO^\^S 


municipal  casino  of  Grasse  the  next  day,  I  knew  that 
I  was  again  in  France.  Frenchmen  themselves  attribute 
the  lack  of  war  spirit  in  Nice  to  the  general  indifference 
and  lesser  patriotism  of  the  Midi!  But  this  is  because 
Nice  means  the  Midi  to  most  of  them.  They  are  unfair 
to  the  Midi.  In  no  way  does  Nice  represent  the  Midi 
of  France  except  that  it  basks  in  the  same  sun. 

The  common  explanation  of  the  failure  of  France  to 
assimilate  Nice  is  that  only  sixty  years  have  passed  since 
the  annexation  and  that  a  large  portion  of  the  Nigois 
are  Italian  in  blood  and  culture  and  instincts.  There 
may  be  some  truth  in  all  this.  But  two  generations  is 
a  long  time,  and  France  has  proved  her  ability  to  make 
six  decades  count  in  attaching  to  herself  and  stamping  in 
her  image  other  border  populations.  Two  factors  have 
worked  against  the  assimilation  of  Nice :  the  maintenance 
of  the  independence  of  Monaco,  with  privileges  and  no 
responsibilities  for  its  inhabitants;  and  the  enormous 
number  of  foreign  residents,  who  have  lost  their  attach- 
ment to  their  own  countries  and  who  do  not  care  to 
give  or  are  incapable  of  giving  allegiance  to  the  country 
in  which  they  live.  Add  to  these  demoralizing  influences, 
at  work  throughout  the  sixty  years,  the  flood  of  tourists 
and  temporary  residents  of  all  nations;  and  is  it  to  be 
wondered  at  that  the  NiQois,  native  and  alien,  have  so 
little  in  common  with  France? 

When  you  stroll  along  the  Promenade  des  Anglais, 
with  its  hotels  and  palm-surrounded  villas,  the  Mediter- 
ranean coast  line  extending  alluringly  from  the  distant 
[114] 


NICE 


lighthouse  of  Antibes  in  the  west  to  the  Chateau,  set  in 
green,  in  the  foreground  to  the  east,  you  feel  that  you  are 
in  one  of  the  fairy  spots  of  the  earth.  The  sea,  the  city 
climbing  up  the  hill  to  Cimiez,  the  white-capped  moun- 
tains beyond,  and  on  the  handsome  promenade  the  best- 
gowned  of  Europe,  all  in  the  brilliant  sunshine  of  a  soft 
spring  day — what  could  be  more  charming?  And  then, 
suddenly,  your  unwilling  nostrils  breathe  in  a  strong 
whiff  of  sewage.  Have  you  been  mistaken?  Surely 
you  are  dreaming.  The  Casino  dances  on  the  water.  A 
bevy  of  girls  come  out  of  the  Hotel  Ruhl  to  join  the 
Lenten  noon-day  throng.  Nothing  disagreeable  like 
sewage — but  there  it  is  again !  Whew !  Where  can  that 
sewer  empty?  Fault  of  French  engineering,  an  Ameri- 
can would  say. 

But  the  sea  has  brought  me  that  smell  on  the  board- 
walk in  front  of  the  Traymore  at  Atlantic  City.  It  is 
difficult  to  get  ahead  of  nature,  and  the  undertow  does 
bring  back  what  you  thought  you  were  rid  of. 

Figuratively  speaking,  the  surprise  on  the  Promenade 
des  Anglais  meets  you  every  day  in  your  study  of  Nice. 
The  city  charms:  and  it  repels.  You  have  been  drink- 
ing in  its  beauty  and  its  fascination.  Suddenly  some- 
thing sordid,  ugly,  disgusting,  breaks  the  spell.  On  the 
Promenade  des  Anglais  sewage  greets  the  eye  as  well  as 
the  nose.  Not  vicious  women  and  poor  little  dolls  alone, 
but  cruel  and  weak  faces,  shifty  and  vapid  faces,  self- 
centered  and  morose  faces,  leech  faces,  pig  faces,  of  well- 
tailored  men — you  watch  them  pass,  you  remember  what 
[115] 


KIVIERA  TOAVNS 


you  have  seen  at  the  tables  in  near-by  Monte  Carlo,  and 
the  utter  depravity  of  your  race  frightens  you.  Except 
clothes  and  jewels  and  the  ability  to  get  a  check  cashed, 
what  is  the  difference  between  these  people  and  the 
sailors  from  a  hundred  ships,  making  merry  with  their 
girls  in  the  narrow  streets  back  from  the  Vieux  Port  of 
Marseilles  ? 

The  law  of  compensation  often  comforts  and  cheers. 
But  as  often  it  is  remorseless.  Broken  health  and  empty 
purses,  desperation,  mute  suffering  and  madness,  we  saw 
at  Monte  Carlo.  Where  the  world  flocks  for  pleasure, 
agony  of  soul  reveals  itself  more  readily  than  elsewhere 
because  of  its  incongruity.  Nice  is  full  of  tragedy,  and 
none  takes  the  pains  to  conceal  it  as  at  Monte  Carlo. 
The  casual  visitor  creates  his  own  atmosphere  in  Nice, 
and  he  goes  away  with  the  most  pleasant  memory,  having 
found  what  he  sought.  But  you  cannot  stroll  day  after 
day  on  the  Promenade  without  marking  many  that  do 
not  smile.  You  watch  them  and  you  see  unhappiness, 
unrest,  despair,  and  resignation.  If  you  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  life  and  gossip  of  the  various  colonies, 
you  will  not  need  a  Victor  IMarguerite  to  reveal  to  you 
the  inner  life  of  the  world's  "playground."  More  fre- 
quently than  not  it  is  a  case  of  on  with  the  dance.  What 
a  price  people  do  pay  to  play ! 

Just  one  illustration.  The  Russians  used  to  be  an 
important  factor  in  the  social  life  of  Nice.  They  had 
money  and  they  could  give  an  American  points  on  spend- 
ing. Attracted  by  the  sun,  many  made  their  homes  in 
[1161 


NICE 


Nice.  They  lived  like  the  hhes  of  the  field.  They  could 
count  on  a  sure  thing.  The  moujiks  of  great  estates 
toiled  for  them,  and  from  the  days  of  their  great-great- 
grandfathers the  revenues  had  never  ceased.  During  the 
first  years  of  the  World  War,  the  Russians  were  in  high 
favor  at  Nice.  They  v^ere  the  powerful  allies  of  France, 
brothers-in-arms,  who  fought  for  the  common  cause. 
Then  came  the  Revolution.  Cosmopolitan  Nice  would 
have  forgiven  the  defection  of  Russia.  But  when  the 
revenues  from  Petrograd  and  Moscow  banks  no  longer 
came  in,  that  was  another  matter !  Where  the  pursuit  of 
pleasure  is  king,  there  is  no  pity  for  the  moneyless 
courtier,  whatever  the  cause  of  his  change  of  fortune. 
The  Russians  sold  their  jewels  and  their  fur  coats,  the 
rugs  and  furniture  of  their  villas,  and  then  the  villas 
themselves.  Perhaps  they  were  "accommodated"  a  little 
bit  at  first.  But  they  were  soon  left  to  their  own  re- 
sources. 

Before  the  end  of  the  war,  the  center  of  the  Russian 
colony  was  a  soup  kitchen  on  a  side  street,  presided 
over  by  princesses  and  served  by  beautiful  million- 
heiresses  of  the  old  regime.  Good  stuff  in  those  girls, 
too,  who  smiled  as  gayly  as  of  old  and  talked  to  me 
eagerly  about  becoming  governesses  or  stenographers. 
And  real  noblesse  in  the  old  men  who  climbed  up  the 
narrow  stairs  with  their  pails,  coming  to  fetch  their  one 
meal  of  the  day.  In  one  of  them  I  recognized  a  former 
ambassador  to  France.  The  last  time  I  had  seen  him 
he  was  on  horseback  between  Czar  Nicholas  and  Presi- 
[117] 


RIVIERA  TO\VNS 


dent  Loubet  crossing  the  Point  Alexandre  III  on  the 
opening  day  of  the  Paris  Exposition  of  1900. 

Enough  of  shadows!  None  ever  went  to  Nice  in 
search  of  them,  and  comparatively  few  stay  long  enough 
to  find  them.  They  are  in  the  picture,  and  there  would 
be  no  true  picture  without  them.  But  they  ought  to 
stay  in  the  background.  They  do  stay  there.  You  smell 
the  sewage  rarely.  The  all-pervading  sunshine  is  a  tonic. 
Speculating  about  why  others  came  here  and  what  they 
are  doing  with  their  lives  may  hold  you  through  the  rainy 
season.  The  Carnival  puts  you  in  a  more  material  frame 
of  mind.  Unless  Lent  is  early,  the  sun  begins  to  warm 
the  cockles  of  your  heart  on  Mardi-Gras,  and  by  May 
it  will  almost  blind  you  on  the  water-front.  One  is  not 
in  the  mood  to  let  the  misfortunes  and  unhappiness  and 
evil  of  others  cloud  his  joy.  After  all,  of  the  quarter 
million  pleasure-seekers  who  come  to  Nice  each  year,  the 
greater  part  are  in  as  good  moral  health  as  yourself,  and 
very  few  of  them  have  any  more  reason  than  you  to  be 
"in  the  dumps." 

Unless  one  becomes  engrossed  in  the  study  of  cosmo- 
politan human  nature  to  the  point  of  being  sunshine- 
proof,  one  soon  tires  of  the  foreign  residential  and  hotel 
and  shopping  quarters  of  the  city.  They  lack  "subjects," 
as  the  Artist  would  put  it.  But  at  the  eastern  end  of 
Nice,  the  Old  Town,  home  of  Garibaldi  and  many  an- 
other Red  Shirt,  takes  you  far  from  the  psychology  of 
cosmopolitanism  and  the  philosophy  of  hedonism.  This 
is  the  direction  of  Grande  Comiche,  of  villa-studded 
[118] 


NICE 


winding  and  mounting  roads,  of  the  best  views  (if  we 
except  Cimiez)  of  city  and  sea. 

A  mountain  stream  of  varying  volume,  but  always  a 
river  before  the  end  of  Lent,  separates  the  znlle  des 
Strangers  from  the  vieille  ville.  The  Paillon,  as  it  is 
called,  disappears  at  the  Square  Massena,  and  finds  its 
way  to  sea  through  an  underground  channel.  From  the 
center  of  the  city  you  cross  the  Paillon  by  the  Pont 
Garibaldi  or  the  Pont  Vieux.  Or  you  can  enter  the  Old 
Town  from  the  Place  Massena  and  the  Rue  Saint- 
Francois  de  Paule,  which  leads  into  the  Cours  Saleya. 
Here  is  the  most  wonderful  flower  market  in  the  world, 
with  vegetables  and  fruit  and  fowls  encroaching  upon 
the  Place  de  la  Prefecture.  Behind  the  Prefecture  you 
can  lose  yourself  in  a  labyrinth  of  narrow  streets  that 
indicate  the  Italian  origin  of  Nice.  If  you  bear  always 
to  the  right,  however,  you  either  make  a  circle  or  come 
out  at  the  foot  of  the  Chateau. 

East  of  the  Jardin  Public,  the  Promenade  des  Anglais 
becomes  the  Quai  du  Midi,  renamed  Quai  des  Etats-Unis 
in  the  short-lived  burst  of  enthusiasm  of  1918.  At 
least,  the  aldermen  of  Nice  were  more  cautious  than 
those  of  most  French  cities,  and  did  not  call  it  Quai  du 
President- Wilson  ncl  dolce  tempo  de  la  prima  etade! 
Following  the  quay  and  keeping  the  Old  Town  on  the 
left,  you  come  to  the  castle  hill,  still  called  the  Chateau, 
although  the  great  fortress  of  the  Savoyards  was  de- 
stroyed by  the  Duke  of  Berwick  in  the  siege  of  1706. 
The  hill  is  now  a  park,  surmounted  by  a  terrace,  and  is 
[119] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


well  worth  the  climb  to  look  down  upon  the  city  and 
the  Baie  des  Anges,  especially  at  sunset.  At  the  end  of 
the  Quai  du  Midi  (excuse  my  diffidence,  the  Quai  des 
Etats-Unis)  stands  the  low  Tour  Bellanda,  the  only 
tower  remaining  of  the  old  fortifications.  The  Chateau 
is  a  promontory,  and  when  you  take  the  road  which 
skirts  it,  be  sure  to  hold  tight  to  your  hat.  The  Ni^ois 
call  the  windy  corner  Rauba  Capeu  (Hat  Robber). 

Now  you  are  in  still  another  Nice,  the  Port,  protected 
by  a  long  jetty,  on  which  is  perched  a  Hghthouse.  The 
Ni^ois,  traditionally  seafaring  folk,  are  proud  of  their 
little  port,  with  its  clean-cut  solid  stone  quays.  Steam- 
born  transportation  on  land  and  sea,  demanding  facilities 
undreamed  of  in  the  good  old  days  and  tending  to  con- 
centration of  trade  at  Marseilles  and  Genoa,  has  pre- 
vented the  maritime  development  of  Nice.  But  there  is 
local  coast  traffic  and  competition  with  Cannes  and 
Monte  Carlo  for  yachts.  Fishing  and  pleasure  sailing 
add  to  the  volume  of  tonnage.  And  the  Nigois  do  not 
let  you  forget  that  their  city  is  the  port  for  Corsica. 

Beyond  the  harbor,  the  Boulevard  de  ITmperatrice  de 
Russie  leads  to  Villef ranche.  Another  name  to  change ! 
In  the  midst  of  what  is  most  beautiful  we  cannot  get 
away  from  tragedies,  from  reminders  of  blasted  hopes. 


[  120 


AISTTIBES 


[121] 


CHAPTER  X 

Antibes 

BETWEEN  Menton  and  Monte  Carlo  the  coast  is 
broken  by  Cap  Martin,  between  Monte  Carlo  and 
Nice  by  Cap  Ferrat,  between  Nice  and  Cannes  by  Cap 
d' Antibes.  The  capes  are  larger  and  longer  as  we  go 
west,  just  as  the  distances  between  more  important  towns 
grow  longer.  Although  it  does  not  seem  so  to  the 
tourist,  it  is  much  farther  from  Nice  to  Cannes  than 
from  Nice  to  Menton.  The  eastern  end  of  the  Riviera  is 
so  crowded  with  things  to  see,  and  town  follows  town 
in  such  rapid  succession,  that  you  think  you  have  gone  a 
long  way  from  Nice  to  the  Italian  frontier.  And  except 
for  skipping  the  two  larger  promontories,  railway  and 
tramway  alike  follow  right  along  the  coast.  From  Nice 
to  Cannes,  the  tramway  is  inland  from  the  railway.  So 
is  the  automobile  road.  You  fly  along  at  a  rapid  rate, 
with  only  rare  glimpses  of  the  sea,  and  pass  through 
few  villages  until  you  reach  Antibes. 

From  Nice,  from  Saint-Paul-du-Var,  and  from  Cagnes 
you  cannot  see  the  Riviera  coast  beyond  Antibes.     The 
[123] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


Cape,  with  its  lighthouse  and  fort,  is  your  horizon. 
This  corresponds  with  history  as  well  as  with  geography : 
for  the  Cap  d'Antibes  was  the  old  Franco-Italian  fron- 
tier. It  is  still  in  a  very  real  sense  a  boundary  line. 
The  word  Riviera,  which  has  kept  its  Italian  form,  was 
applied  historically  to  the  coast  lands  of  the  Gulf  of 
Genoa.  From  Antibes  to  Genoa  we  had  the  Riviera 
di  Ponente,  and  from  Genoa  to  Spezia  the  Riviera  di 
Levante.  Only  after  Napoleon  III  exacted  the  district 
of  Nice  as  part  payment  for  French  intervention  in  the 
Italian  war  of  liberation  was  the  term  "French  Riviera" 
gradually  extended  to  include  the  coast  far  west  of 
Antibes. 

What  was  added  to  France  under  Napoleon  III  has 
lost  its  purely  Italian  character.  But  it  has  not  gained 
the  stamp  of  France.  From  Antibes  to  Menton,  the 
Riviera  is  more  remarkably  and  undeniably  international 
than  any  other  bit  of  the  world  I  have  ever  seen.  Some 
of  the  old  towns  back  from  the  coast  are  becoming 
French  in  the  new  generation.  But  along  the  coast  you 
are  not  in  France  until  you  reach  Antibes.  You  may 
have  thought  that  you  were  in  France  at  Menton  and 
Beaulieu  and  Nice.  But  the  contrast  of  Antibes  and 
Grasse,  which  are  French  to  the  core,  makes  you  realize 
that  sixty  years  is  not  sufficient  to  destroy  the  traditions 
and  instincts  of  centuries. 

At  Antibes  and  along  the  closely  built  up  coast  and 
between  Antibes  and  Cannes,  the  international  atmos- 
phere is  by  no  means  lost.  It  requires  the  contrast  of 
[124] 


>  '/i 


ii^^-'^^ 


^ V' 


"The    French    atmosphere    begins    to    impress    one    at    Antibes" 


ANTIBES 


Cannes  with  Saint-Raphael  to  show  the  dijfference  be- 
tween a  cosmopohtan  and  a  genuine  French  watering 
place.  But  the  French  atmosphere  begins  to  impress 
one  at  Antibes.  A  knowledge  of  history  is  not  needed 
to  indicate  that  here  was  the  old  frontier. 

Since  the  days  of  the  Greeks  Antibes  has  been  a  fron- 
tier fortress.  Ruins  of  fortifications  of  succeeding  cen- 
turies show  that  the  town  has  always  been  on  the  same 
site,  on  the  coast  east  of  the  Cape,  looking  towards 
Nice.  Antipolis  was  a  frontier  fortress,  built  by  the 
Phoceans  of  Marseilles  to  protect  them  from  the  aggres- 
sive Ligurians  of  Genoa.  Nice  was  an  outpost,  whose 
name  commemorates  a  Greek  victory  over  the  Ligurians. 
At  the  mouth  of  the  Var,  from  antiquity  to  modern 
times,  races  and  religions,  building  against  each  other 
political  systems  for  the  control  of  Mediterranean  com- 
merce, have  met  in  the  final  throes  of  conflicts  the  issue 
of  which  had  been  decided  elsewhere — and  often  long 
before  the  fighting  died  out  here.  Phoenicians  and 
Greeks,  Carthaginians  and  Romans,  Greeks  and  Romans, 
Romans  and  Gauls,  Gauls  and  Teutonic  tribes,  Franks 
and  Saracens,  Spanish  and  French  and  Italians  met  at 
the  foot  of  the  Maritime  Alps.  There  was  never  a  time 
in  history  when  governmental  systems  or  political  unities 
did  not  have  as  a  goal  natural  boundaries,  and,  once 
having  reached  the  goal,  did  not  feel  that  security  neces- 
sitated going  farther.  Invasions  thus  provoked  counter- 
invasions. 

On  sea  it  has  been  as  on  land.  Something  is  acquired. 
[125] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


Immediately  something  more  must  be  taken  to  safeguard 
the  new  acquisition. 

All  this  comes  to  one  with  peculiar  force  at  Antibes. 
You  look  at  Nice  from  your  promontory,  and  your  eye 
follows  the  coast  from  promontory  to  promontory,  and 
you  can  picture  how  the  Phoceans,  once  established  at 
Antibes,  were  tempted  to  extend  the  protective  system  of 
Marseilles.  You  have  only  to  turn  around  and  follow 
the  coast  beyond  the  Esterel  to  understand  how  the 
Ligurians,  if  they  had  captured  Antibes,  would  still  have 
felt  unsafe.  And  then  your  eye  sweeps  the  range  of  the 
white  Maritime  Alps.  Hannibal  had  to  cross  them  to 
carry  the  war  into  Italy.  So  did  Napoleon.  And 
Cassar,  to  save  the  Republic  from  a  recurrence  of  the 
menace  of  the  Cimbri  and  Teutoni,  brought  his  armies 
into  Gaul.  The  Saracens  were  once  on  this  coast. 
When  they  were  expelled  from  it,  the  French  went  to 
Africa  as  the  Romans  before  them  had  gone  to  Africa 
after  expelling  the  Carthaginians  from  Europe. 

Of  the  medieval  fortress,  erected  against  the  Sara- 
cens, two  square  keeps  remain.  The  strategic  impor- 
tance of  Antibes  during  the  heyday  of  the  Bourbon  Em- 
pire is  attested  by  the  Vauban  fortifications.  The  high 
loopholed  walls  enclosing  the  harbor  have  not  been  main- 
tained intact,  but  the  foundation,  a  pier  over  five  hun- 
dred feet  long,  is  still,  after  two  centuries  and  a  half, 
the  breakwater.  The  view  towards  Nice  from  Vauban's 
Fort  Carre  or  from  the  larger  tower,  around  which  the 
church  is  built,  affords  the  best  panorama  of  the  Mari- 
[126] 


ANTIBES 


time  Alps  on  the  Riviera.  Nowhere  else  on  the  Medi- 
terranean coast,  except  from  Beirut  to  Alexandretta  or 
on  the  Silician  plain  or  in  the  Gulf  of  Saloniki,  do  you 
have  so  provoking  a  contrast  of  nearby  but  unattainable 
snow  with  sizzling  heat.  This  may  not  be  always  true. 
The  day  of  the  aeroplane,  as  a  common  and  matter-of- 
fact  means  of  locomotion,  is  coming. 

Looking  towards  the  Alps  from  the  Fort  Carre,  the 
donjon  of  Villeneuve-Loubet  and  the  hill  towns  of 
Cagnes  and  Saint-Paul-du-Var,  where  we  had  passed 
happy  days,  seem  as  near  as  Nice.  Farther  off  on  the 
slope  of  Mont  Ferion  we  could  distinguish  Tourette  and 
Levens  side  by  side  with  their  castles,  and  in  the  fore- 
ground Vence.  To  the  left  was  Tourrettes.  Back  from 
the  Valley  of  the  Loup  was  exploration  and  sketching 
ground  for  another  season.  But  just  a  few  kilometers 
ahead  of  us,  halfway  to  Villeneuve-Loubet,  Biot  tempted 
us.  We  had  driven  through  this  town  not  mentioned 
by  Baedeker,  and  had  promised  ourselves  a  second  visit 
to  the  old  church  of  the  Knights  Templar.  But  life  con- 
sists of  making  choices,  and  one. does  not  readily  turn 
his  back  on  the  Cap  d'Antibes.  In  the  town  you  are 
just  at  the  beginning  of  the  peninsula  whose  conical  form 
and  unshutinness  (is  that  a  word:  perhaps  I  should  have 
used  hyphens?)  enables  you  to  walk  five  miles  punctu- 
ating every  step  with  a  new  exclamation  of  delight. 

Only  we  did  not  walk.  Joseph-Marie,  who  would 
have  been  Giuseppe-Maria  at  Nice,  stopped  to  look  over 
the  Artist's  shoulder  and  incidentally  to  suggest  that  we 
[127] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


might  have  cigarettes.  A  veteran  of  two  years  at 
twenty,  his  empty  left  sleeve  told  why  he  was  reformc. 
Glad  to  get  out  of  the  mess  so  easily,  he  explained  to  us 
laconically;  and  now  he  was  eking  out  his  pension  by 
driving  a  cart  for  the  Vallauris  pottery.  The  express 
train  "burned"  (as  he  put  it)  the  pottery  station,  and 
he  had  come  to  put  on  grande  vitesse  parcels  at  Antibes. 
Cannes  was  a  hopeless  place  for  the  potters :  baskets  of 
flowers  always  took  precedence  there  over  dishes  and 
jugs.  The  Artist  believed  that  Joseph-Marie's  horse 
could  take  us  around  the  cape  with  less  effects  from  the 
heat  than  we  should  suffer,  and  that  for  ten  francs 
Joseph-Marie  could  submit  to  his  boss's  wrath  or  invent 
a  story  of  unavoidable  delay.  I  agreed.  So  did  Joseph- 
Marie.  If  we  proved  too  much  heavier  than  pottery, 
we  would  take  turns  walking.  At  any  rate,  the  Artist's 
kit  had  found  a  porter. 

We  took  the  Boulevard  du  Cap  to  Les  Nielles,  were 
lucky  in  finding  the  garden  of  the  Villa  Thuret  open,  and 
then  let  our  horse  climb  up  the  Boulevard  Notre-Dame 
to  the  lighthouse  on  top  of  La  Garoupe,  as  the  peninsula's 
hill  is  called.  Here  the  Riviera  coast  can  be  seen  in  both 
directions.  The  view  is  not  as  extended  as  that  of  Cap 
Roux,  for  Cannes  is  shut  off  by  the  Cap  de  la  Croisette. 
But  in  compensation  you  have  Nice  and  the  hill  towns 
of  the  Var,  and  while  lacking  the  clear  detail  of  Cap 
Ferrat  and  Cap  Martin  you  get  the  background  of  the 
Maritime  Alps  which  is  not  visible  east  of  Nice.  And 
the  lies  de  Lerins  look  so  different  from  their  usual 
[128] 


ANTIBES 


aspect  as  sentinels  to  Cannes  that  it  is  hard  to  beHeve 
they  are  the  same  islands.  Near  the  lighthouse  and 
semaphore  a  paved  path,  marked  with  the  stations  of  the 
cross,  leads  to  a  chapel. 

The  Villa  Thuret  is  the  property  of  the  state,  and  is 
used  as  a  botanical  nursery  for  the  Jardin  des  Plantes 
at  Paris.  In  variety,  however,  it  does  not  rival  the 
Giardino  Hanbury  near  Menton,  and  in  beauty  it  is  sur- 
passed by  the  private  garden  of  Villa  Eilenroc,  near  the 
end  of  the  Cap  d'Antibes.  These  two  gardens,  the  most 
remarkable  of  the  Riviera,  were  made  by  Englishmen 
who  preferred  the  sun  and  warmth  of  the  Riviera  to  their 
native  land.  The  most  wonderful  garden  on  Cap  Ferrat 
is  the  creation  of  an  American.  Cannes  was  "made" 
by  Lord  Brougham.  The  other  important  estate  of  the 
Cap  d'Antibes,  Chateau  de  la  Garoupe,  is  the  property 
of  an  Englishman.  As  at  Arcachon  and  Biarritz  and 
Pau,  as  at  Aix-les-Bains,  Anglo-Saxon  ownership  of 
villas  and  German  ownership  of  hotels  and  the  prevalence 
of  Teutons  as  shopkeepers  and  waiters  prove  the  passion 
of  men  of  the  north  for  lands  of  the  south. 

Twenty  years  ago,  just  after  Fashoda,  there  was  a 
strong  current  of  uneasiness  among  British  residents  on 
the  Riviera.  The  experiences  of  civilians  caught  by 
Napoleon  and  kept  prisoners  for  years  had  passed  into 
English  history  and  literature.  British  consuls  were  sur- 
prised to  find  that  thousands  of  their  compatriots,  of 
whom  they  had  had  no  previous  knowledge,  were  living 
all  the  year  round  on  the  Riviera.  These  people  came 
[129] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


to  make  inquiry'  about  what  would  be  done  to  them  if 
France  did  declare  war  suddenly  against  Great  Britain. 
Would  they  be  given  time  to  leave  the  country?  Fifteen 
years  later  the  calamity  of  a  sudden  interruption  of  a 
peaceful  existence,  basking  in  the  sun,  did  fall  upon 
foreigners,  but  statesmen  had  shuffled  the  cards  around, 
and  this  time  the  civilians  caught  in  the  net  were  Germans 
and  Austrians.  The  Napoleonic  principle  still  held. 
Italy  could  be  seen  with  the  naked  eye.  But  none  were 
allowed  to  pass  out.  Tourists  and  residents,  subjects  of 
the  Central  Powers,  were  arrested  and  imprisoned  on 
the  lies  de  Lerins,  where  they  remained  five  years,  many 
of  them  in  sight  of  their  villas  on  the  coast  and  the  hotels 
they  had  built  and  managed.  They  stayed  longer  than 
Marshal  Bazaine,  who  managed  to  escape,  but  not  as 
long  as  the  mysterious  Man  with  the  Iron  Mask. 

One  of  the  keepers  at  the  Antibes  lighthouse  had  been 
an  auxiliary  soldier  in  the  fort  of  Sainte-^Iarguerite 
during  the  early  years  of  the  war.  He  told  us  that  some 
of  the  trapped  tourists  were  very  restive,  but  that  most 
of  the  German  civilians  who  were  residents  of  the 
Riviera  were  far  from  being  discontented  with  their  lot. 
Better  a  prison  on  the  He  Sainte-Marguerite  than  exile 
from  the  Riviera!  This  w^as  better  taste  and  wiser 
philosophy  than  we  expected  of  Germans.  One  could  go 
far  and  fare  worse  than  an  enforced  sojourn  on  one  of 
the  loveliest  islands  of  the  JMediterranean,  whose  pine 
forests  are  reminiscent  of  Prinkipo.  From  1914  to  1919 
life  was  much  harsher  beyond  those  Alps. 
[130] 


IC^ 


Vl'ft,  l>fji^'r-^  ^^- 


'Saint-Honorat  was  a  monastic  establishment  from  the 
fourth   century  to   the   Revolution" 


ANTIBES 


Saint-Honorat,  the  smaller  island  half  a  mile  from 
Sainte-Marguerite,  was  a  monastic  establishment  from 
the  fourth  century  to  the  French  Revolution.  It  passed 
into  ecclesiastical  hands  again  in  the  Second  Empire  and 
became  a  Cistercian  monastery.  Although  the  restora- 
tion was  accomplished  with  distressing  thoroughness 
forty  years  ago,  some  parts  of  the  chapel  date  back  to 
the  seventh  century,  and  a  huge  double  donjon — the 
dominating  feature  of  the  island  from  the  coast — re- 
mains from  the  twelfth-century  fortifications.  A  road, 
on  which  are  ruins  of  four  medieval  chapels,  runs  round 
the  island.  We  were  unable  to  visit  Sainte-Marguerite 
and  on  Saint-Honorat  pencil  and  paper  had  to  be  kept 
out  of  sight.     But  I  must  not  wander  to  another  day. 

Joseph-Marie  liked  our  tobacco  and  the  horse  did  not 
mind  stopping  en  route.  It  was  six  o'clock  when  we 
reached  Juan-les-Pins,  only  a  mile  from  Antibes  on  the 
other  side  of  the  cape.  Two  miles  farther  along  the 
coast,  at  Golfe-Juan,  where  the  road  turns  in  to  Vallauris, 
we  climbed  down  from  the  cart,  brushed  much  dust 
from  our  clothes,  and  started  home  along  the  coast  road 
to  Cannes.  Joseph-Marie  waved  his  empty  sleeve  in 
farewell,  happy  in  our  promise  to  look  him  up  some  day 
in  Vallauris  with  a  pocketful  of  cigarettes. 


[131] 


CANNES 


[133] 


rl'lfl 


CHAPTER  XI 
Cannes 

OF  one-half  of  Tarascon  the  prince  whom  Tartarin 
met  in  Algiers  displayed  an  astonishingly  detailed 
knowledge.  Concerning  the  rest  of  the  town  he  was 
as  astonishingly  noncommittal.  When  it  leaked  out  that 
the  prince  had  been  in  the  Tarascon  jail  long  enough  to 
become  familiar  with  what  could  be  seen  from  one 
window,  Tartarin  understood  his  limitation.  My  picture 
of  Cannes  is  as  indelible  as  the  prince's  picture  of 
Tarascon.  For  most  of  my  Riviera  days  were  spent  in 
a  villa  across  the  Golfe  de  la  Napoule  from  Cannes. 
Not  infrequently  our  baby  Hope  gave  us  the  privilege  of 
seeing  Cannes  by  sunrise.  We  ate  and  worked  on  a 
terrace  below  our  bedroom  windows.  Every  evening  we 
watched  Cannes  disappear  or  become  fairyland  in  the 
moonlight. 

[135] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


What  we  saw  from  the  Villa  Etoile  was  the  Golfe  de 
la  Napoule  from  the  Pointe  de  I'Esquillon  to  the  Cap 
de  la  Croisette.  The  Corniche  de  I'Esterel  rounded  the 
Esquillon  and  came  down  to  sea  level  at  Theoule  through 
a  forest  of  pines.  It  passed  our  villa.  The  curve  of  the 
gulf  between  us  and  Cannes  was  only  seven  miles.  First 
came  La  Napoule,  above  whose  old  tower  on  the  sea 
rose  a  hill  crowned  with  the  ruins  of  a  chapel.  A  via- 
duct with  narrow  arches  carried  the  railway  across  the 
last  ravine  of  the  Esterel.  In  the  plain,  between  two 
little  rivers,  the  Siagne  and  the  Riou,  was  a  grove  of 
umbrella  pines.  Here  began  the  Boulevard  Jean  Hibert, 
protected  by  a  sea-wall  in  concrete,  leading  into  Cannes. 
The  town  of  Cannes,  flanked  on  the  left  by  Mont 
Chevalier  and  on  the  right  by  La  Croisette,  displayed  a 
solid  mass  of  hotels  on  the  water  front.  Red-roofed 
villas  climbed  to  Le  Cannet  and  La  Californie,  elbowing 
each  other  in  the  town  and  scattering  in  the  suburbs 
until  the  upper  villas  were  almost  lost  in  foliage.  Be- 
hind were  the  Maritime  Alps.  Not  far  beyond  La 
Croisette,  the  Cap  dAntibes  jutted  out  into  the  sea.  At 
night  the  lighthouses  of  Cannes  and  Antibes  flashed  alter- 
nately red  and  green,  and  between  them  Cannes  sparkled. 
Inland  to  the  left  of  Cannes  were  Mougins  on  a  hill 
and  Grasse  above  on  the  mountain  side.  Occasional 
trails  of  smoke  marked  the  main  line  of  the  railway 
along  the  coast  and  the  branch  line  from  Cannes  to 
Grasse.  In  the  sea  lay  the  lies  de  Lerins,  Sainte-Mar- 
guerite  almost  touching  the  point  of  La  Croisette. 
[136] 


...^ 


r  V 


]  I 


v^-y; 


kK: 


0      4) 


U      (U 

J  • 


4- 


\~. 


CANNES 


But  unlike  the  Prince,  we  did  have  a  chance  to  see 
Cannes  at  other  angles.  Cannes  was  the  metropolis  to 
which  we  went  hopefully  to  hire  cooks,  find  amusement, 
and  buy  food  and  drink.  Theoule  had  neither  stores  nor 
cafes,  and  after  the  Artist  came  we  were  glad  to  vary 
the  monotony  of  suburban  life.  It  is  always  that  way 
with  city  folk.  How  wonderful  the  quiet,  how  delight- 
ful the  seclusion  of  the  "real  country" !  But  after  a 
few  weeks,  while  you  may  hate  yourself  for  wanting 
noise  and  lights,  while  you  may  still  affect  to  despise  the 
herding  instinct,  you  find  yourself  quite  willing  to  com- 
mune with  nature  a  little  less  intimately  than  in  the 
first  enthusiastic  days  of  your  escape  from  the  whirl 
and  the  turmoil  of  your  accustomed  atmosphere.  Not 
that  Cannes  is  ever  exactly  "whirl  and  turmoil ;"  but  you 
could  have  tea  at  Rumpelmayer's,  you  could  dance  and 
listen  to  music  and  see  shows  at  the  Casino,  and  you 
could  look  in  shop  windows.  On  the  terrace  of  the 
Villa  Etoile  we  thanked  God  that  we  were  out  in  the 
country,  and  we  loved  our  walks  on  the  Corniche  road 
and  back  into  the  Esterel.  But  it  was  a  comfort  to 
have  Cannes  so  near !  We  were  not  dependent  upon  the 
twice-a-day  omnihits  train,  which  made  all  the  stops  be- 
tween Marseilles  and  Nice.  An  hour  and  a  half  of 
brisker  walking  than  one  would  have  cared  to  indulge 
in  farther  east  on  the  Riviera  took  us  to  Cannes,  and 
the  cockers  were  always  reasonable  about  driving  out  to 
Theoule  in  the  evening. 

From  our  villa  to  La  Napoule  we  were  still  in  the 
[137] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


Esterel.  Then  we  crossed  the  mouth  of  the  Siagne  by 
a  bridge,  and  came  down  to  the  sea  on  the  Boulevard 
Jean  Hibert.  Between  the  mouth  of  the  Siagne  and 
Mont  Chevalier  are  the  original  villas  of  Cannes  and  the 
hotels  of  the  Second  Empire.  Here  Lord  Brougham 
built  the  Villa  Eleonore  Louise  in  1834,  when  Cannes 
was  a  fishing  village,  not  better  known  than  any  other 
hamlet  along  the  coast.  Here  are  the  Chateau  Vallom- 
brosa  (now  the  Hotel  du  Pare),  the  Villa  Laroche- 
foucauld  and  the  Villa  Rothschild,  whose  unrivaled 
gardens  are  shut  off  by  high  walls  and  shrubbery.  They 
are  well  worth  a  visit:  but  you  must  know  when  and 
how  to  get  into  them.  As  you  near  Mont  Chevalier, 
the  sea  wall,  no  longer  needed  to  protect  the  railway 
(which  for  a  couple  of  miles  had  to  run  right  on  the 
sea  to  avoid  the  grounds  and  villas  laid  out  before  it 
was  dreamed  of),  recedes  for  a  few  hundred  feet  and 
leaves  a  beach. 

On  Mont  Chevalier  is  the  Old  Town,  grouped  around 
a  ruined  castle  and  an  eleventh-century  tower.  The 
parish  church  is  of  the  thirteenth  century.  The  build- 
ings on  the  quay  below,  facing  the  port,  are  of  the 
middle  of  the  nineteenth  century.  But  they  look  much 
older.  For  they  were  built  by  townspeople,  and  serve 
the  needs  of  the  small  portion  of  the  population  which 
would  be  living  in  Cannes  if  it  were  not  a  fashionable 
watering  place.  Despite  its  marvelous  growth,  Nice  has 
always  maintained  a  life  and  industries  apart  from 
tourists  and  residents  of  the  leisure  class.  Cannes,  on 
[138] 


CANNES 


the  other  hand,  with  the  exception  of  the  Httle  Quartier 
du  Suquet,  is  a  watering  place.  It  needs  Mont  Chevaher, 
as  Monte  Carlo  needs  Monaco,  to  make  us  realize  that 
Cannes  existed  before  this  spot  was  taken  up  and  de- 
veloped by  French  and  British  nobility.  The  square 
tower  and  the  cluster  of  buildings  around  it,  the  hotels 
and  restaurants  of  fishermen  on  the  Quai  Saint  Pierre, 
dominate  the  port.  This  bit  out  of  the  past,  and  of  an- 
other world  in  the  present,  is  at  the  end  of  the  vista  as 
one  walks  along  the  Promenade  de  la  Croisette :  and  the 
Boulevard  Jean  Hibert  runs  right  into  it.  The  touch 
of  antiquity  would  otherwise  be  lacking,  and  the  Artist 
would  scarcely  have  considered  it  worth  his  while  to  take 
his  kit  when  we  went  to  Cannes. 

The  port  is  formed  by  a  breakwater  extending  out 
from  the  point  of  Mont  Chevalier,  with  a  jetty  opposite. 
Except  for  the  fishermen,  who  are  strong  individualists 
and  sell  their  catch  right  from  their  boat,  the  harbor's 
business  is  in  keeping  with  the  city's  business.  Its 
shipping  consists  of  pleasure  craft.  Among  the  yachts 
whose  home  is  Cannes  one  used  to  see  the  Lysistrata  of 
Commodore  James  Gordon  Bennett.  How  many  times 
have  I  received  irate  messages  and  the  other  kind,  too, 
both  alike  for  my  own  good,  sent  from  that  vessel !  In 
the  garden  of  his  beautiful  home  at  Beaulieu,  between 
Villefranche  and  Monaco,  the  Commodore  told  me  of 
the  offer  he  had  received  from  the  Russian  Government 
for  this  famous  yacht.  Not  many  months  after  the 
Lysistrata  disappeared  from  its  anchorage  at  Cannes, 
[139] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


the  man  who  had  been  the  reason — and  means — of 
Riviera  visits  to  more  journahsts  than  myself  died  at 
BeauHeu. 

Only  on  the  side  of  Mont  Chevalier  has  the  harbor 
a  quay.  The  inner  side  is  bordered  by  the  Alices  de  la 
Liberte,  a  huge  rectangle  with  rows  of  old  trees  under 
which  the  flower  market  is  held  every  morning.  At  the 
Old  Town  end  is  the  Hotel  de  Ville  and  at  the  east  end 
the  Casino.  Running  out  seaward  from  beside  the 
Casino  is  the  Jetee  Albert  Edouard.  To  its  very  end 
the  jetty  is  paved,  and  when  a  stiff  sea  wind  is  blowing 
you  can  drink  in  the  spray  to  your  heart's  content.  Be- 
hind the  Casino  is  a  generous  beach.  This  is  one  great 
advantage  of  Cannes  over  Nice,  where  instead  of  sand 
you  have  gravel  and  pebbles.  The  Riviera  is  largely 
deserted  before  the  bathing  season  sets  in,  but  one  does 
miss  the  sand.  At  Cannes  kiddies  are  not  deprived  of 
pails  and  shovels  and  grownups  can  stretch  out  their 
blankets  and  plant  their  umbrellas. 

The  Promenade  de  la  Croisette  runs  along  the  sea 
from  the  Casino  to  the  Restaurant  de  la  Reserve  on  La 
Croisette.  The  difference  between  the  Promenade  de  la 
Croisette  and  the  Promenade  des  Anglais  was  summed 
up  by  an  English  friend  of  mine  in  five  words.  "More 
go-carts  and  less  dogs,"  he  said.  "More  wives  and  less 
cocottes,"  the  Artist  put  it.  Of  course  there  are  some 
children  at  Nice  and  some  cocottes  at  Cannes.  And 
where  fashion  reigns  the  difference  between  mondaine 
and  demi-mondaine  is  unfortunately  not  always  apparent. 
[  140  ] 


vim  I     '^>i;"  m^^ 


'A    bit    out    of   the   past,    and    of    another   world 
in  the  present" 


CANNES 


Gold  frequently  glitters.  But  Cannes  is  less  garish  than 
Nice  in  buildings  and  in  people. 

Doubling  the  Cap  de  la  Croisette,  we  are  in  the  Golfe 
Juan,  with  the  Cap  d'Antibes  beyond.  Here  Napoleon, 
fearing  his  possible  reception  at  Saint-Raphael,  landed 
on  his  return  from  Elba.  A  column  marks  the  spot. 
Bound  for  the  final  test  of  arms  at  Waterloo,  Napoleon 
little  dreamed  that  twenty  years  later  his  English  foes 
would  begin  to  make  a  peaceable  conquest  of  this  coast, 
and  that  within  a  hundred  years  French  and  English 
would  be  fighting  side  by  side  on  French  soil  against  the 
Germans.  How  much  has  the  Englishman's  love  of  the 
Riviera  had  to  do  with  the  Entente  Cordiale?  What 
part  has  the  Riviera  played  in  the  Franco-Russian 
Alliance?  British  and  Russian  sovereigns  have  shown 
as  passionate  a  fondness  for  this  corner  of  France  as 
their  subjects.  There  are  English  and  Russian  churches 
at  Cannes  and  Nice.  Men  who  played  a  vital  part  in 
forming  the  present  alliance  were  regular  visitors  to  the 
Riviera.  At  the  beginning  of  the  Promenade  de  la 
Croisette,  only  three  miles  from  the  Napoleon  column, 
stands  Puech's  remarkable  statue  of  Edward  VII,  who 
spoke  French  with  a  German  accent,  but  who  never  con- 
cealed his  preference  for  France  over  the  land  of  his 
ancestors. 

One  charm  of  Cannes  is  the  feeling  one  has  of  not 

being  crowded.     At  Nice  and  along  the  eastern  Riviera 

hotels  and  villas  jostle  each  other.     Around  Cannes  the 

gardens  are  more  important  than  the  buildings.     Strik- 

[141] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


ing  straight  inland  from  the  Casino  past  the  railway  sta- 
tion, the  broad  Boulevard  Camot  gradually  ascends  to 
Le  Cannet.  This  is  the  only  straight  road  out  of  Cannes. 
All  the  other  roads  wind  and  turn,  bringing  you  con- 
stantly around  unexpected  corners  until  you  have  lost 
your  sense  of  direction.  Branches  of  trees  stick  out 
over  garden  walls  overhung  with  vines.  Many  of  the 
largest  hotels  can  be  reached  only  by  these  chemins. 
You  realize  that  the  city  has  grown  haphazard,  and  that 
no  methodical  city  architect  was  allowed  to  make  boule- 
vards and  streets  that  would  disturb  the  seclusion  of 
the  villa-builders,  who  plotted  out  their  grounds  with 
never  a  thought  of  those  who  might  later  build  higher 
up.  So  roads  skirted  properties.  The  result  does  not 
commend  itself  to  those  who  are  in  a  hurry.  But  it 
gives  suburban  Cannes  an  aspect  unique  on  the  Riviera. 
Many  of  the  hotels  thus  hidden  away  are  built  on  private 
estates,  and  if  you  want  to  get  to  them  you  have  to 
follow  all  the  curves. 

The  labyrinthine  approach  adds  greatly  to  the  delight 
of  a  cHmb  to  La  Calif ornie.  If  you  go  by  carriage, 
unless  you  have  a  map,  you  are  tempted  to  feel  that  the 
cocker  is  taking  a  roundabout  route  to  justify  the  high 
price  he  asked  you.  But  if  you  go  afoot — and  without 
a  map — you  may  find  yourself  back  at  the  point  of  de- 
parture before  you  know  it.  But  however  extended 
your  wanderings,  the  beauty  of  the  roads  is  ample  com- 
pensation, and  when  you  reach  at  last  the  Square  du 
Splendide-Panorama,  nearly  eight  hundred  feet  above 
[142] 


"Around    Cannes   the    gardens    are    more    important    than 
the   buildings" 


CANNES 


the  city,  you  are  rewarded  by  a  view  of  mountains  and 
sea,  from  Nice  to  Cap  Roux,  which  makes  you  say  once 
more — as  you  have  so  often  done  in  Riviera  explorations 
—"This  is  the  best !" 

After  lunch  at  the  observatory  we  decided  to  walk  on 
to  Vallauris  and  look  up  our  friend  of  Antibes  at  the 
pottery.  A  cocker  without  a  fare  persuaded  us  to  visit 
the  aqueduct  at  Clausonne  en  route  to  Vallauris.  He 
painted  the  glories  of  the  scenery  and  of  Roman  masonry. 
"You  will  never  regret  listening  to  me,"  he  urged.  We 
followed  the  wave  of  his  hand,  and  climbed  meekly 
aboard,  although  at  lunch  we  had  been  carrying  on  an 
antiphonal  hymn  of  praise  to  the  pleasure  and  benefit  of 
shanks'  mare. 

We  did  not  regret  abandoning  our  walk.  I  managed 
to  get  the  Artist  by  the  Chapelle  de  Saint-Antoine  on 
the  Col  de  Vallauris  and  to  limit  him  to  a  hasty  croquis 
of  the  Clausonne  Aqueduct.  We  were  out  for  pleasure, 
with  no  thought  of  articles.  When  you  feel  that  you 
are  going  to  have  to  turn  your  adventures  to  a  practical 
use,  it  does  take  away  from  the  sense  of  relaxation  that 
a  writer  like  anyone  else  craves  for  on  his  day  off.  On 
the  road  to  Vallauris  we  were  more  struck  by  the  heather 
than  any  other  form  of  vegetation.  The  mountains  and 
hills  were  covered  with  it,  and  whatever  else  we  saw, 
heather  was  always  in  the  picture  on  the  hills  and  mimosa 
along  the  roadside.  From  the  roots  of  transplanted 
Mediterranean  heather — and  not  from  briar — are  made 
what  we  call  briarwood  pipes.  When  a  salesman  as- 
[143] 


RIVIERA  TOA\nS^S 


sures  you  that  the  pipe  he  offers  is  "genuine  briar,"  if  it 
really  was  briar,  you  would  think  it  wasn't.  When 
names  have  become  trademarks,  we  have  to  persist  in 
their  misuse, 

Vallauris  was  called  the  golden  valley  (vallis  aurea) 
because  of  the  pottery  the  Romans  discovered  the  natives 
making  from  the  fine  clay  of  the  banks  of  the  little 
stream  that  runs  into  the  Golfe  Juan.  For  twenty  cen- 
turies the  inhabitants  of  Vallauris  have  found  no  reason 
to  change  their  metier.  They  are  still  making  dishes  and 
vases  and  statuettes,  and  there  is  still  plenty  of  clay. 
Moreover,  modern  methods  have  not  found  a  substitute 
either  for  the  potter  at  his  wheel  or  for  the  little  ovens 
of  limited  capacity  when  it  comes  to  turning  out  work 
that  is  flawless  and  bears  the  stamp  of  individuality. 
We  can  manufacture  almost  everything  en  masse  and  in 
series  except  pottery.  Joseph-Marie  was  not  in  evidence 
at  Vallauris :  but  we  found  the  potters  glad  to  show  us 
their  work,  seemingly  for  the  pride  they  had  in  it.  Of 
course  you  did  have  a  chance  to  buy:  but  salesmanship 
was  not  obtrusive. 

The  great  industry  of  Cannes  is  fresh  cut  flowers. 
The  flower  market  of  a  morning  in  the  Alices  de  la 
Liberte  is  richer  in  variety  than  that  of  Nice.  There  is 
less  charm,  however,  in  the  sellers.  In  Nice  you  simply 
cannot  help  buying  what  is  offered  you.  Pretty  faces 
and  soft  pleading  voices  draw  the  money  from  your 
pocket.  You  look  from  the  flowers  to  those  who  offer 
them :  and  then  you  buy  the  flowers.  At  Cannes,  on  the 
[144] 


^-.  'fc*^-  *wWf^« 


^'.    ^#  '    X- 


ir 


-3 


^^ 


^.^^ 


■!   :5V    v'  > 


^C  \\ 


-s,--- 


ut 


[{•ftL  ,...,^. 


'There    is   less   charm    in    the   sellers    than   at    Nice' 


CANNES 


other  hand,  you  ask  yourself  first  what  in  the  world  you 
are  going  to  do  with  them  after  you  have  them.  Per- 
haps this  difference  in  your  mood  is  the  reason  of  the 
enormous  industry  that  has  been  developed  in  Cannes. 
You  are  not  asked  to  buy  flowers  because  a  seller  wants 
you  to  and  is  able  to  lure  you  with  a  smile.  You  are 
told  that  here  is  the  unique  chance  to  send  your  friends 
in  Paris  and  London  a  bit  of  the  springtime  fragrance 
of  the  Riviera. 

"Three  francs,  five  francs,  ten  francs,  monsieur,  and 
tomorrow  morning  in  Paris  or  tomorrow  evening  in 
London  the  postman  will  deliver  the  flowers  to  your 
friend." 

Pen  and  ink,  cards,  gummed  labels  or  tags  are  put 
under  your  nose.  You  are  shown  the  little  reed  baskets, 
in  rectangular  form,  that  will  carry  your  gift.  If  your 
Paris  or  London  friend  knows  Latin,  and  thinks  a 
minute,  he  will  realize  that  Cannes  is  living  up  to  her 
name  in  thus  utilizing  her  reeds  to  send  out  over  Europe 
an  Easter  greeting,  jonquils,  carnations,  roses,  geraniums 
with  the  smell  of  lemons,  orange  blossoms,  cassia, 
jessamine,  lilacs,  violets  and  mimosa. 


[145] 


MOUGINS 


[147] 


CHAPTER  XII 

MOUGINS 

T  ^  7E  were  about  to  enter  the  Casino  at  Cannes.  The 
V  V  coin  had  been  flipped  to  decide  which  of  us 
should  pay,  and  we  were  starting  up  the  steps  when  a 
yell  and  a  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  made  us  look  around. 
A  victoria  was  bearing  down  upon  us.  The  cocher  was 
waving  his  whip  in  our  direction.  We  recognized  the 
man  who  had  driven  us  to  Grasse. 

"A  superb  afternoon,"  he  explained,  "and  Mougins  is 
only  twelve  kilometers  away.  With  Mougins  at  twelve 
kilometers,  it  is  incredible  to  think  that  you  would  be 
spending  an  afternoon  like  this  in  the  Casino.  I  would 
surely  be  lacking  in  my  duty — " 

"What  is  Mougins?"  I  interrupted. 

"All  that  is  beautiful,"  explained  the  cocher  en- 
thusiastically.    "A  city  on  a  hill.     A  glorious  view." 

"That    settles    it,"    said    the    Artist,    turning    away. 
"Every  city  is  on  a  hill,  and  all  views  are  glorious." 
[149] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


"But  Mougins  is  different,"  insisted  the  cocher,  "and 
the  view  is  different.  Besides,  the  wine  is  unique.  It 
is  sparkling,  and  can  be  taken  at  five  o'clock  with  little 
cakes.  There  are  roads  you  have  not  seen,  and  pretty 
girls  at  work  in  the  rose  fields.  We  shall  drive  slowly." 
There  had  been  much  wandering  during  the  past  fort- 
night and  we  were  ready  for  a  quiet  afternoon  at  the 
Casino.  But  we  allowed  ourselves  to  be  persuaded. 
The  Casino  was  always  there,  and  we  had  never  heard 
of  vin  mousseux  on  the  Riviera.  Baedeker,  as  if  in 
duty  bound  to  miss  nothing,  records  the  existence  of 
Mougins,  three  kilometers  east  of  the  Cannes-Grasse  road 
after  you  pass  the  ten-kilometer  stone  on  the  way  to 
Grasse — then  gives  the  next  town.  Mougins  is  not 
starred,  and  nothing  around  Mougins  is  starred.  Was 
not  that  a  reason  for  going  there? 

English  royalty  used  to  come  to  Cannes,  and  every 
season  more  middle  class  Britishers  woke  up  to  the  fact 
that  it  would  be  pleasant  to  write  home  to  one's  friends 
from  Cannes.  Hotels  and  villas  increased  rapidly. 
When  English  royalty  went  elsewhere,  Russian  Grand 
Dukes  and  Balkan  princelings  saved  the  day  for  the 
snobs.  Consequently,  the  town  has  spread  annoyingly 
into  the  country.  A  row  of  hotels  faces  the  sea,  and  on 
side  streets  are  less  pretentious  hotels,  invariably  ad- 
vertised as  a  minute's  walk  from  the  sea.  A  mile  inland 
is  another  quarter  of  fashionable  hotels  for  those  whom 
the  splashing  of  the  waves  makes  nervous.  Then  the 
interminable  suburbs  of  villas  and  pensions  commence. 
[150] 


MOUGINS 


When  city  people  seek  a  change  of  climate,  they  do 
not  always  want  a  change  of  environment.  They  are 
intent  upon  living  the  same  life  as  at  home,  upon  fol- 
lowing the  same  round  of  amusements.  They  cannot 
be  happy  without  their  comforts  and  conveniences,  and 
this  means  the  impossibility  of  getting  away  from 
streets  and  buildings  and  noises  and  crowds.  The  class 
that  has  monopolized  the  Riviera  has  tried  to  recreate 
Paris  in  the  Midi.  If  one  wants  to  find  the  country 
right  on  the  sea  coast,  one  must  get  off  the  train  before 
reaching  Cannes.  Between  Cannes  and  the  Italian  fron- 
tier, one  does  not  have  the  sea  without  the  city.  Only 
by  going  inland  can  one  find  the  country  without  miss- 
ing the  sight  and  feel  of  the  sea.  For  everywhere  the 
land  rises.  The  valleys  rise.  Roads  keep  mounting  and 
curving  to  avoid  heavy  grades,  and  foothills  do  not  hide 
the  Alps  and  the  Mediterranean.  After  escaping  from 
Cannet,  the  outermost  suburb,  the  road  to  Mougins  goes 
through  a  valley  of  oranges  and  roses.  There  are  stone 
farmhouses  with  thatched  roofs  and  barns  that  give 
forth  the  smell  of  hay.     There  are  cows  and  chickens. 

We  were  congratulating  ourselves  upon  having  given 
up  the  casino  long  before  we  reached  Mougins.  We 
forgave  the  cocher  his  exaggeration  about  the  workers 
in  the  rose  fields.  When  one  sees  in  paintings  and  in 
the  cinematograph  pretty  girls  engaged  in  agricultural 
pursuits,  it  is  more  than  even  money  that  they  are  mod- 
els and  actresses  in  disguise.  I  am  enthusiastic  in  my 
cult  of  the  country,  but  I  have  never  carried  it  to  the 
[151] 


RIVIERA  TOAVNS 


point  of  becoming  ecstatic  over  country  maidens.  There 
must  be,  of  course,  as  many  good-looking  girls  in  the 
country  as  in  the  city.  But  could  a  chorus  of  milk- 
maids to  satisfy  New  York  or  Paris  be  recruited  outside 
New  York  or  Paris? 

When  we  reached  the  uncompromising  stretch  of  road 
that  led  up  to  Mougins,  we  took  mercy  upon  the  horses. 
The  cocker  had  not  driven  them  as  slowly  as  he  had 
promised.  We  walked  a  mile  through  olive  orchards, 
and  were  in  the  town  before  we  realized  it.  Unlike 
other  hill  cities  of  the  Riviera  that  we  had  visited, 
Mougins  has  no  castle  and  no  walls.  Few  traces  remain 
of  outside  fortifications.  All  around  Mougins  the  land 
is  cultivated.  One  does  not  realize  the  abruptness  of  the 
hilltop,  for  the  city  rises  from  fields  and  vineyards  and 
orchards.  Saint-Paul-du-Var  and  Villeneuve-Loubet  re- 
mind one  of  the  days  when  self-defense  was  a  constant 
preoccupation.  Mougins  long  ago  forgot  feudal  quarrels, 
foreign  invasions  and  raids  of  Saracens  and  Barbary 
pirates.  The  peasants  still  live  together  on  a  hilltop, 
going  forth  in  the  morning  and  coming  back  in  the  even- 
ing. But  they  have  taken  the  stone  of  their  walls  for 
fences,  and  of  their  towers  for  bams.  They  have 
brought  their  tilled  land  up  the  hillside  to  the  city. 

On  the  main  street,  we  had  the  impression  that  the 
medieval  character  of  Mougins  was  lost  by  rebuilding. 
Ailanthus  trees  and  whitewashed  walls  and  red-tiled 
roofs  greeted  us.  The  church  and  the  market-place  were 
of  the  Third  Republic.  Sleepy  cafes  displayed  enameled 
[152] 


m--: 


r.  ^  ^i 


W:-: 


"The  arch  of  a   city  gate  lost  itself  in  a  modern 
building  across  the  street" 


MOUGIlSrS 


tin  advertisements  of  Paris  drinks.  The  signs  in  front 
of  the  notions  shop  declared  the  merits  of  rival  Paris 
newspapers.  But  when  we  were  hunting  out  a  vantage 
point  from  which  to  get  the  view  of  Cannes  and  the 
Mediterranean,  the  Artist  saw  much  to  tempt  his  pencil. 
Back  from  the  main  street,  old  Mougins  survived,  none 
the  less  charming  from  the  constant  contrasts  of  old  and 
new. 

The  arch  of  a  city  gate,  perfectly  preserved  on  one 
side,  lost  itself  in  a  modern  building  across  the  street. 
A  woman,  leaning  out  of  a  window,  wanted  to  know 
what  the  Artist  was  doing.  I  explained  our  interest  in 
the  arch.  Had  there  been  a  gate  in  her  grandmother's 
time?  Why,  when  so  much  of  a  former  age  had  dis- 
appeared, did  this  half-arch  remain?  The  woman  was 
puzzled.  It  was  incomprehensible  that  anyone  should 
be  interested  in  the  arch,  which  had  always  been  there. 
I  thought  I  would  try  her  on  current  events. 

**Many  men  have  gone  from  Mougins  to  the  war?" 
I  asked. 

"Yes." 

"How  many?" 

Instantly  suspicion  flashed  in  the  woman's  eyes.  "Ask 
that  at  the  Maine,"  she  snapped. 

The  conversation  ended,  but  accusing  eyes  remained 
fixed  upon  me  until  the  Artist  had  finished  his  sketch.  I 
never  felt  more  like  a  spy  in  my  life,  and  could  picture 
myself  hauled  before  the  authorities  for  having  tried  to 
secure  military  information.  What  an  advantage  to  the 
[153] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


enemy  if  they  could  be  sure  just  how  many  men  had 
gone  from  Mougins! 

Mougins  hves  in  medieval  fashion,  if  not  wholly  in 
medieval    houses.     Dependent    upon    occasional    water 
from  the  heavens  for  carrying  sewage  down  the  hillside, 
Mougins  has  no  use  for  gutters  and  drains.     Rubbish 
is  thrown  from  windows,  and  tramped  down  into  last 
year's  layer  of  pavement.     Goats  enjoy  the  rich  pastur- 
age of  old  boots  and  cans  and  papers  and  rags  and  vege- 
tables that  had  lived  beyond  their  day.     Although,  as 
we  walked  through  the  alleys,  we  saw  no  one,  heard  no 
one,  the  houses  were  inhabited :  for  much  of  the  garbage 
was  painfully  recent,  and  clothes  flapped  on  lines  from 
window  to  window  over  our  heads.     The  Artist  sug- 
gested that  the  townspeople  might  be  taking  a  siesta. 
But  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon  for  that.     Then  we 
remembered  that  Mougins  was  an  agricultural  commu- 
nity, and  that  the  work  of  the  town  was  in  the  fields. 
This  explained  also  why  we  saw  no  shops  and  no  evi- 
dences of  trade.     Olives,  flowers,  wine,  fruit  and  vege- 
tables are  taken  to  the  markets  of  Cannes  and  Grasse, 
and  the  people  of  Mougins  buy  what  they  need  where 
they  sell.     Mougins  has  only  bakeries  and  cafes.     Bread 
and  alcohol  alone  are  indispensable  where  people  dwell 
together. 

We  circled  the  city,  and  came  out  on  the  promenade 

across  which  we  had  entered  Mougins.     Every  French 

town  has  an  illustrious  son,  for  whom  a  street  is  named, 

on  whose  birthplace  a  tablet  is  put,  and  to  whom  a  monu- 

[154] 


MOUGINS 


ment  is  raised.  Our  tour  had  taken  us  through  the  Rue 
du  Commandant  Lamy.  We  had  read  the  inscription 
on  his  home,  and  were  now  before  his  monument,  a 
bust  on  a  slender  pedestal,  with  the  glorious  sweep  of 
La  Napoule  for  a  background.  The  peasants  of 
Mougins,  as  they  go  out  to  and  return  from  the  labor 
of  vineyard,  orchard  and  field,  pass  by  the  Lamy 
memorial.  Even  when  they  are  of  one's  own  blood,  is 
there  inspiration  in  the  daily  reminder  of  heroes?  How 
many  from  Mougins  have  followed  Lamy's  example?  I 
have  often  wondered  whether  monuments  mean  anything 
except  to  tourists. 

As  I  had  recently  been  writing  upon  French  colonial 
history,  Lamy's  daring  and  fruitful  journeys  in  Central 
Africa  were  fresh  in  my  mind,  and  I  remembered  his 
tragic  death  in  the  Wadai  fifteen  years  ago.  An  old 
man  had  just  come  up  the  hill,  and  was  dragging  weary 
legs  encased  in  clay-stained  trousers  across  the  prome- 
nade. A  conical  basket  of  lettuce  heads  was  on  his 
back,  and  he  used  the  handle  of  his  hoe  as  a  cane. 

"Did  you  know  Lamy?"  I  inquired. 

"Lamy  was  a  boy  in  this  town  when  I  was  a  grown 
man  going  to  my  work.  I  used  to  pass  him  playing  on 
this  very  spot,"  he  answered. 

As  we  walked  along  toward  the  main  street,  we  asked 
whether  there  were  others  from  Mougins  who,  like 
Lamy,  had  played  a  part  in  the  history  of  France  abroad. 
No,  the  people  of  Mougins  liked  to  stay  at  home. 
Fortunately  for  the  prosperity  of  the  country,  the  young 
[155] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


men  returned  after  their  military  service,  and  the  attrac- 
tions and  opportunities  of  city  life  rarely  took  them  and 
held  them  farther  away  than  Cannes  and  Grasse.  The 
Artist  had  his  eye  on  the  lettuce  basket  and  the  hoe,  and 
I  wanted  to  hear  more  of  life  in  Mougins.  We  asked 
the  old  man  to  share  a  bottle  with  us. 

The  cocher  was  waiting  in  front  of  a  cafe,  and  corrob- 
orated the  statement  on  a  huge  painted  sign,  that  here 
was  to  be  found  the  true  vin  mousseux  of  Mougins.  It 
was  evident  that  we  were  not  the  first  tourists  to  come 
from  Cannes.  The  cocher  was  a  friend  of  the  pro- 
prietress, who  made  us  welcome  in  the  way  tourists  are 
greeted.  Little  cakes  and  a  dusty  bottle  were  produced 
promptly,  and  in  the  stream  of  words  that  greeted  us 
we  could  gather  that  this  was  a  red-letter  occasion  for 
us,  and  that  it  was  possible  to  have  the  vin  mousseux  of 
Mougins  shipped  to  Paris  by  the  dozen  or  the  hundred. 
This  annoyed  us  and  dampened  our  ardor  for  the  treat. 
The  Artist  and  I  share  a  foolish  feeling  of  wanting  to 
be  pioneers.  We  like  to  believe  that  our  travels  take  us 
out  of  the  beaten  path,  and  that  we  are  constantly  dis- 
covering delectable  places.  After  us  the  tourists — but 
not  before! 

The  corkscrew  of  the  proprietress,  however,  consoled 
us.  A  corkscrew  through  whose  handle  the  beaded 
pressure  of  gas  escapes  before  the  cork  is  drawn  may  be 
common  enough.  But  the  fact  remains  that  neither  of 
us  had  seen  one.  We  expressed  our  delight  and  wonder, 
and  the  Artist  naively  told  the  proprietress,  before  he 
[156] 


r.-.v^-vr 


'Mougins    lives    in    medieval    fashion,    and    has   no    use 
for    gutters    and    drains" 


MOUGINS 


tasted  the  wine,  that  he  felt  rewarded  for  the  trip  to 
Mougins  just  for  the  discovery  of  the  corkscrew.  After 
the  first  sip,  I  added  that  now  we  knew  why  we  had 
walked  up  the  long  hill.  The  proprietress  and  the 
cocher  beamed.  Our  enthusiasm  meant  money  to  them. 
The  old  man  twisted  his  mouth  contemptuously. 

"Tell  me,  then,"  he  said,  "what  was  your  thought  of 
me  when  you  saw  me  coming  up  the  hill  to  the  prome- 
nade with  my  burden  of  lettuce  heads?  And  when  I 
told  you  that  I  had  seen  Lamy  playing  as  a  boy  on  the 
spot  where  his  statue  stands?  Sorry  for  me,  were  you 
not?  Lamy  had  the  good  sense,  you  think,  to  quit 
Mougins,  and  go  out  to  glory.  I  and  the  rest  of 
Mougins,  you  think,  have  stayed  here  because  we  do  not 
know  any  better.  It  is  all  in  the  point  of  view.  One 
of  you  is  enthusiastic  over  a  patent  corkscrew,  and  the 
other  over  the  wine.  You  tourists  from  the  city  can- 
not understand  us.  It  is  because  you  carry  your  limita- 
tions with  you.  You  think  you  lead  a  large,  broad, 
varied  life.  You  do  not.  Finding  the  greatest  interest 
of  Mougins  in  a  patent  corkscrew  and  sparkling  wine  be- 
trays you.'* 

*'Ces  messieurs  have  a  passion  for  the  country  and 
for  towns  away  from  the  railroad,"  remonstrated  the 
cocher.  "This  afternoon  I  tempted  them  from  the 
Casino  at  Cannes.  They  are  a  thousand  times  enthusi- 
astic about  Mougins,  your  homes,  your  streets,  your 
views,  and  all  they  have  seen  in  the  valley  coming  here. 
If  they  had  limitations,  would  they  have  wanted  to  come? 
[157] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


It  is  senseless  to  think  that  they  make  the  effort,  that 
they  spend  the  money,  just  to  be  pleased  with  what  they 
see  from  their  own  world  or  what  reminds  them  of  their 
own  world.  I  spend  my  life  with  tourists,  and  they  al- 
ways appreciate,  I  have  never  known  them  to  fail  to 
thank  me  for  having  brought  them  to  Mougins." 

Our  critic — and,  indeed,  our  judge — turned  on  the 
cocher. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  sharply,  raising  his  voice  wither- 
ingly,  "would  you  risk  bringing  tourists  to  Mougins  if 
there  were  not  this  cafe  and  the  vin  mousseuxf" 

The  cocher  puffed  his  cigar  vigorously.  The  Artist, 
highly  delighted,  broke  an  almost  invariable  rule  to 
prove  that  the  greatest  interest  of  Mougins  was  not  the 
corkscrew.  He  opened  his  sketch-book.  While  the  old 
man  was  fingering  the  sketches,  I  ordered  another  bottle. 

Our  guest  had  been  the  vanguard  of  the  homeward 
procession.  All  Mougins  was  now  passing  before  us. 
We  wondered  if  the  war  was  responsible  for  the  large 
number  of  women,  from  grandmothers  to  little  girls,  and 
why  old  men  had  to  go  out  to  work  in  the  fields.  For 
the  passers-by  included  every  category  of  the  population 
of  Mougins. 

"Now  you  see,"  continued  our  mentor,  "what  it  is  to 
live.  A  score  of  men  who  knew  Lamy  have  passed  be- 
fore you.  They  did  not  go  to  Africa  to  hunt  negroes 
and  to  put  our  flag  on  the  map  at  the  same  time  as  the 
names  of  unknown  towns.  They  are  here,  and  will  eat 
a  good  dinner  tonight.  Lamy  is  dead.  Now  I  do  not 
[158] 


MOUGINS 


say  that  we  are  heroes,  and  that  our  point  of  view  is 
heroic.  But  I  do  say  that  we  are  not  to  be  pitied.  And 
I  say,  moreover,  that  we  do  as  much  for  France  as  Lamy 
did.  If  we  had  all  gone  to  Africa,  there  might  be  more 
names  on  the  map,  but  there  would  be  less  food  in  the 
markets  of  Grasse  and  Cannes." 

"Oh,  for  the  ghost  of  Gray,"  commented  the  Artist. 
"He  would  be  face  to  face  with  the  'unseen  flower' — but 
not  blushing!" 

"A  case  of  auream  quisquis  mediocritatem  diligit,"  I 
answered. 

We  were  getting  classical  as  well  as  philosophical,  and 
it  was  time  to  go.     To  whom  was  the  mediocrity  ? 


fiS9] 


FKEJUS 


[i6i] 


CHAPTER  XIII 
Frejus 

THE  ride  from  Theoule  to  St.  Raphael,  by  the 
Corniche  de  I'Esterel,  gives  a  feeling  of  satiety. 
The  road  along  the  sea  is  a  succession  of  curves,  each 
one  leading  around  a  rocky  promontory  into  a  bay  that 
causes  you  to  exclaim,  "This  is  the  best!"  For  thirty- 
five  kilometers  there  is  constantly  a  new  adjustment  of 
values,  until  you  find  yourself  at  the  point  where  com- 
paratives and  superlatives  are  exhausted.  The  vehicle 
of  language  has  broken  down.  Recurrent  adjectives  be- 
come trite.  When  the  search  for  new  ones  is  an  effort, 
you  realize  that  nature  has  imposed,  through  the  prodigal 
display  of  herself,  a  limit  of  capacity  to  enjoy.  Of 
copper  rocks  and  azure  sea ;  of  mountain  streams  hurry- 
ing through  profusely  wooded  valleys;  of  cliffs  with 
changing  profiles ;  of  conifers ;  of  enclosed  parks,  whose 
charm  of  undergrowth  run  wild  and  of  sunlit  green  tree- 
[163] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


trunks  successfully  hides  the  controlling  hand  of  man 
to  the  uninitiated  in  forestry;  of  hedges  and  pergolas 
and  ramblers  and  villas  and  lighthouses  and  islets  and 
yachts,  we  had  our  fill. 

But  at  La  Napoule  a  Roman  milestone  announced  that 
we  were  on  the  road  to  Forum  Julii :  and  the  very  first 
thing  that  attracted  us  when  we  reached  St.  Raphael 
was  a  bit  of  aqueduct  on  the  promenade.  It  looked 
singularly  out  of  place  right  by  the  sea,  and  surrounded 
by  an  iron  fence  quite  in  keeping  with  those  of  the  hotels 
across  the  street.  The  inscription  (Third  Republic,  not 
Roman)  told  us  that  this  portion  of  the  aqueduct  from 
the  River  Siagne  to  Frejus  was  removed  from  its  original 
emplacement  and  set  up  here  under  the  prefectship  of 
Monsieur  X,  the  subprefectship  of  Monsieur  Y,  and  the 
mayorship  of  Monsieur  Z.  The  fishing  village  that  has 
rapidly  grown  into  one  of  the  most  important  "resorts" 
of  the  Riviera  claims  distinction  on  historical  grounds. 
Napoleon  landed  at  St.  Raphael  on  his  return  from  Elba. 
Gounod  composed  Romeo  and  Juliet  here.  General 
Gallieni  was  cultivating  his  vineyard  here  when  the  war 
of  1 91 4  broke  out,  and  the  call  to  arms  sent  him  from 
his  seclusion  to  become  the  savior  of  Paris.  But  when 
ruins  became  fashionable  in  the  last  decade  of  Queen 
Victoria,  it  was  necessary  for  St.  Raphael  to  have  an 
ancient  monument.  An  arch  of  the  aqueduct  was  im- 
ported to  the  beach  with  as  little  regard  for  congruous 
setting  as  Mr.  Croesus-in-Ten- Years  shows  in  importing 
an  English  lawn  to  his  front  yard  at  Long  Branch  and  a 
[164] 


•.Mal.\. 


^ty 


•^-    V5; 


''^ym^^ 


The  Corniche  de  I'Esterel   is  a  road  of  copper  rocks 

and   azure   sea" 


FREJUS 

gallery  of  ancestral  portraits  to  his  dining-room  on  Fifth 
Avenue. 

The  Artist  looked  at  the  ruins  in  silence.  He  tried  to 
gnaw  the  ends  of  his  mustache.  His  eyes  changed 
from  amusement  to  contempt,  and  then  to  interest.  I 
was  ready  for  his  question. 

"Say,  where  is  this  town  Frejus  ?" 

The  cocher  protested.  He  had  bargained  to  take  us  to 
St.  Raphael,  the  horses  were  tired,  and  anyway  there  was 
no  good  hotel,  no  food,  nothing  to  do  at  Frejus. 

"Where  is  Frejus?"  repeated  the  Artist.  The  cocher 
pointed  his  whip  unwillingly  westward  along  the  shore. 
The  Artist  turned  to  me  with  his  famous  nose-and-eyes- 
and-chin-up  expression. 

"What  do  you  say,  inon  vieuxf" 

"Decidedly  Frejus,"  I  answered. 

Accustomed  to  American  queerness,  the  cocher  re- 
signed himself  to  the  reins  for  another  five  kilometers. 

Since  the  River  Argens  began  to  flow,  it  has  been  de- 
positing silt  against  the  eastern  shore  of  the  Gulf  of 
Frejus,  at  the  point  of  which  stands  St.  Raphael. 
Consequently  the  road,  sentineled  by  linden  trees,  crosses 
a  rich  plain,  and  is  more  than  a  mile  from  the  sea  when 
it  reaches  the  city  of  Julius  Caesar.  The  upper  ends  of 
the  mole  of  the  ancient  port,  high  and  dry  like  ships  at 
low  tide,  join  the  walls  of  the  canal.  You  have  to  look 
closely  to  distinguish  the  canal  and  the  depression  of  the 
basin  into  which  it  widens  near  the  town.  For  where 
land  has  encroached  upon  sea,  vegetable  gardens  and 
[165] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


orchards  have  been  planted.  Inland,  the  arches  from  the 
aqueduct  of  the  Siagne  shed  their  bricks  in  wheat  fields 
and  protrude  from  clumps  of  hazels.  As  it  enters  the 
city,  the  road  turns  back  on  itself  and  mounts  to  the  mar- 
ket-place. The  sharp  outward  bend  of  the  elevation 
above  the  narrow  stretch  of  lowland  suggest  that  there 
was  a  time,  long  before  Roman  days,  when  Frejus,  like 
the  towns  of  the  Corniche  de  I'Esterel,  was  built  on  a 
promontory. 

Frejus  belongs  to  no  definite  period.  It  is  not  Roman, 
medieval,  modem.  It  is  not  a  watering-place  fashionable 
or  unfashionable,  a  manufacturing  town  prosperous  or 
struggling,  a  port  bustling  or  sleepy,  a  fishing-village  or 
a  flower-gathering  center.  Frejus  suggests  no  marked 
racial  characteristics  in  architecture  or  inhabitants.  It 
is  neither  distinctly  Midi  nor  distinctly  Italian — as  those 
terms  are  understood  by  travelers.  Frejus  is  unique 
among  the  cities  of  the  Cote  d'Azur  because  it  has  no 
unmistakable  cachet.  Frejus  suggests  Rome,  the  Middle 
Ages,  the  twentieth  century.  Frejus  embraces  pleasure- 
seeking,  industries,  fish,  flowers,  and  soldiering.  Mer- 
maids, delightfully  reminiscent  of  the  Lido  and  Abbazia 
in  garb,  dive  from  the  end  of  the  mole  into  a  safe  swim- 
ming-pool; children  of  the  proletariat  in  coarse  black 
tahliers,  who  have  not  left  sandals  and  white  socks  on 
the  beach  behind  them,  fish  for  crabs;  naval  aviators 
start  hydroplanes  from  an  aerodrome  beside  the  Roman 
amphitheater;  fishermen,  of  olive  Mediterranean  com- 
plexion, dry  copper-tinted  nets  on  the  beach,  laying  them, 
[i66] 


4  Y^  ,.'  -^ 


''•'/a; 


"Frejus  belongs  to  no  definite  period.     It  has  no  marked  racial 
characteristics   in   architecture   or   inhabitants" 


FREJUS 

despite  the  scolding  of  the  Senegalese  guards,  upon  piles 
of  granite  and  cement  blocks  with  which  flaxen-haired 
German  prisoners  are  building  a  new  pier. 

We  had  come  to  the  beach  for  an  after-luncheon 
smoke,  and  when  we  were  not  looking  at  the  Senegalese 
and  Germans,  our  eyes  wandered  from  hydroplanes  and 
machine-gun-armed  motor-boats  to  the  mermaids  on  the 
Roman  mole.  Not  till  we  ran  out  of  tobacco  and  the 
mole  ran  out  of  mermaids  did  we  realize  that  Frejus  was 
still  unexplored  and  unsketched.  We  gave  ourselves  a 
six  o'clock  rendezvous  on  the  beach.  The  Artist  started 
to  seek  Roman  ruins,  while  I  turned  towards  the  market- 
place, cathedral  bound.  Sea-level  villas  came  first,  and 
then  a  quarter  of  sixteenth-century  houses,  many  of 
which  showed  on  the  ground  floor  medieval  foundations. 
In  two  places  I  got  back  to  the  Romans.  A  cross  sec- 
tion of  thin  flat  bricks  with  generous  interstices  of 
cement  in  the  front  wall  of  a  greengrocer's  opposite, 
indicated  the  line  of  the  Roman  fortification.  Walking 
around  the  next  parallel  street,  I  managed  to  get  into 
a  garden  where  a  long  piece  of  the  wall  remained. 

I  came  out  to  the  St.  Raphael  carriage  road  at  a  corner 
where  arose  a  huge  square  tower  of  the  Norman  period. 
Almost  to  its  crumbling  top,  houses  had  been  built 
against  it  on  two  sides.  The  angle  formed  by  the  alley 
through  which  I  came  and  the  main  street  had  fortu- 
nately kept  the  other  two  sides  clear.  The  tower  was 
the  home  of  a  wine  and  coal  merchant,  who  had  laid  in 
a  supply  of  cut  wood  on  his  roof  to  the  height  of  several 
[167] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


feet  above  the  irregular  parapet.  Outside  one  of  the 
narrow  vertical  slits,  which  in  ages  past  had  served  as 
vantage  point  for  a  vizored  knight  fitting  arrow  to  bow, 
hung  a  parrot  cage.  "Coco"  was  chattering  Marseilles 
sailor  French. 

A  single  gargoyle  remained.  It  was  a  panther, 
elongated  like  a  dachshund.  He  was  desecrated  and 
humiliated  by  having  tied  around  his  middle  the  end  of 
the  clothesline  that  stretched  across  the  alley.  This 
proved,  however,  that  he  still  held  firmly  his  place.  The 
panther,  ignoring  change  of  fortune,  looked  down  as  of 
yore,  snarling,  and  with  whiskers  stiffened  to  indicate 
that  if  he  had  been  given  hind  legs,  they  would  be  ready 
for  a  spring.  So  worn  was  the  gargoyle  that  ears  and 
chin  and  part  of  forehead  had  disappeared.  But  you 
can  see  the  snarl  just  as  you  can  see  the  Sphinx's  smile. 
When  a  thing  is  well  done,  it  is  done  for  all  time.  If 
a  poor  workman  had  fashioned  that  gargoyle,  there 
would  have  been  no  panther  and  no  snarl  when  it  was 
put  up  there.  But  a  master  worked  the  stone,  and  what 
he  wrought  is  ineradicable.  It  will  disappear  only  with 
the  stone  itself.  When  we  speak  of  ruins,  we  mean 
that  a  part  of  the  material  used  in  expressing  a  concep- 
tion has  not  resisted  climate  and  age  and  earthquake  and 
vandalism.  Armless,  Venus  de  Milo  is  still  the  perfect 
woman.  Headless,  Nike  of  Samothrace  is  still  symbolic 
of  the  glory  of  prevailing. 

In  the  morning,  before  reaching  St.  Raphael,  we  passed 
an  African  soldier  limping  along  the  dusty  road.     He 
ri681 


'Arose  a   huge  square   tower  of  the   N 


orman  period" 


FREJUS 


was  dispirited  even  to  the  crumpled  look  of  his  red  fez, 
and  the  sun,  shining  mercilessly,  glinted  from  his  rifle- 
barrel  to  the  beads  of  perspiration  on  the  back  of  his 
neck.  We  were  going  fast,  and  had  just  time  to  wave 
gayly  to  cheer  him  up.  He  did  not  return  our  salute. 
This  struck  us  as  strange.  Fearing  that  he  might  be  ill, 
we  made  the  cocher  turn  round,  and  went  back  to  pick 
him  up.  He  declared  that  a  sprained  ankle  made  it  im- 
possible for  him  to  keep  up  with  his  regiment,  which  had 
been  marching  since  early  morning.  He  was  grateful 
for  the  lift,  and  beamed  when  we  assured  him  that  we 
could  take  him  as  far  as  St.  Raphael.  At  that  time  we 
were  not  thinking  of  going  to  Frejus,  the  garrison  town 
of  the  African  troops.  When  we  overtook  the  regiment 
and  reached  his  company,  we  tried  to  intercede  with  the 
French  sergeant.  The  sergeant  was  adamant  and  posi- 
tive. 

"A  thousand  thanks,  but  the  man  is  shamming.  He  is 
lazy.     He  must  get  out." 

We  had  to  give  up  our  soldier.  The  sergeant  knew  his 
men,  and  justice  is  the  basic  doctrine  which  guides  the 
discipline  of  the  French  colonial  army.  The  regiment  of 
Algerians  must  have  stopped  for  lunch  or  maneuvers. 
For  they  were  just  coming  through  the  Place  du  Marche 
when  I  reached  there.  Only  the  colonel  was  on  horse. 
At  the  turn  of  the  road,  the  captains  stood  out  of  rank 
to  watch  their  companies  wheel.  Our  soldier  of  the 
morning  passed.  He  had  forgotten  his  limp.  The  ser- 
geant recognized  me,  and  pointed  to  the  soldier.  His 
[169] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


left  upper  eyelid  came  down  with  a  wink,  as  if  to  say, 
"Don't  I  know  them !" 

There  is  a  spirit  of  camaraderie  between  officers  and 
men  in  Frejus  that  one  never  sees  in  native  regiments  of 
the  British  army.  The  French  have  none  of  our  Anglo- 
Saxon  feeling  of  caste  and  race  prejudice,  which  makes 
discipline  depend  upon  aloofness,  French  officers  can  be 
severe  without  being  stern :  and  they  know  the  difference 
between  poise  and  pose.  We  Anglo-Saxons  need  to  re- 
vise radically  our  judgment  of  the  French  in  regard  to 
certain  traits  that  are  the  sine  qua  non  of  military 
efficiency.  Energy,  resourcefulness,  coolness,  persist- 
ence, endurance,  pluck — where  have  these  pet  virtues  of 
ours  been  more  strikingly  tested,  where  have  they  been 
more  abundantly  found,  than  in  the  French  army? 

The  sign  of  the  French  colonial  army  is  an  anchor, 
and  Frejus  is  full  of  officers  who  wear  it.  They  are 
mostly  men  of  the  Midi,  Roman  Gauls  every  inch  of 
them.  The  Lamys,  the  Gallienis,  the  Joffres,  the  Fochs, 
the  Lyauteys  were  born  with  a  genius  for  leadership  in 
war.  Their  aptitude  for  African  conquest  and  their  joy 
in  African  colonization  are  the  heritage  of  their  native 
land.  The  fortunes  of  southern  France  and  northern 
Africa  were  inseparable  through  the  ten  centuries  of  the 
spread  of  civilization  and  the  Latin  and  Teutonic  in- 
vasions in  the  Western  Mediterranean.  The  connection 
was  unbroken  from  the  time  that  Hannibal  marched  his 
African  troops  through  Frejus  to  Italy  until  the  Omay- 
yads  conquered  Tunis,  Algeria  and  Morocco.  It  is  the 
[170] 


T^REJUS 

most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  see  African  troops  in 
Frejus.  They  belong  here  now,  because  since  men  be- 
gan to  sail  in  ships,  they  have  always  been  at  home  here 
as  friends  or  enemies.  Mediterranean  Africa  and  Medi- 
terranean France  received  simultaneously  political,  so- 
cial and  religious  institutions,  and  from  the  same  source. 
As  the  Crescent  wanes,  Gaul  is  coming  back  into  her 
own. 

Frejus  shopkeepers  suffer  from  the  proximity  of  the 
upstart  St.  Raphael.  Frejus  keeps  the  bishop,  but  St. 
Raphael  has  taken  the  trade.  There  is  now  only  one 
business  street.  It  runs  from  the  Place  du  Marche 
through  the  center  of  the  city  to  the  Place  du  Dome. 
You  can  get  from  one  place  to  the  other  in  about  five 
minutes.  Few  people  were  on  this  street  in  mid-after- 
noon. None  were  going  into  the  shops.  I  chose  the 
department  store,  and  asked  the  only  saleswoman  in  sight 
for  a  collar.  She  brought  down  two  styles,  both  of 
which  were  bucolic.  Matched  with  a  beflowered  tie, 
either  would  have  gone  perfectly  around  the  neck  of  a 
Polish  immigrant  in  New  York  on  his  wedding  day.  I 
suggested  that  I  be  shown  some  other  styles.  The  sales- 
woman gazed  at  me  stonily. 

"A  bus  leaves  the  corner  below  here  for  St.  Raphael 
every  hour.  You  are  there  in  twenty  minutes.  Or  you 
can  go  by  train  in  six  minutes." 

Up  went  the  boxes  to  their  shelf.  There  was  nothing 
for  me  to  do  but  get  out. 

One  says  Place  du  Dome  or  Place  de  I'Hotel  de  Ville, 
[171] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


depending  upon  whether  sympathies  are  ultramontane  or 
anti-clerical.  For  cathedral  and  city  hall  touch  each 
other  at  right  angles.  LIBERTE-EGALITE-FRA- 
TERNITE  is  the  legend  in  large  letters  on  the  cathedral 
wall:  the  one  notice  posted  on  the  Hotel  de  Ville  is  a 
warning  of  the  last  day  to  pay  taxes.  Two  beggars 
stand  guard  at  the  cathedral  portal:  Senegalese  with 
fixed  bayonets  flank  the  archway  leading  to  the  municipal 
courtyard.  The  Hotel  de  Ville  is  a  modem  building, 
typical  of  French  official  taste  of  the  present  day:  the 
cathedral  is  an  edifice  of  several  epochs,  with  a  brick 
facade  reminiscent  of  Bologna.  The  episcopal  palace, 
adjacent  to  the  cathedral,  is  part  of  the  same  structure. 
But  it  is  used  for  government  offices,  and  the  entrance  to 
its  upper  floor  is  by  a  staircase  from  the  vestibule  of  the 
cathedral.  The  Sendee  de  Sante  Municipale  occupies 
the  rooms  along  the  portico  that  faces  the  cloister.  The 
cure  of  souls  has  been  banished  to  a  private  house  across 
the  street. 

The  cathedral  quarter  is  wholly  Louis  XVI  and  First 
Empire.  HI  had  begun  my  ramble  there,  I  should  have 
found  much  to  admire.  But  I  had  been  spoiled  by  the 
Louis  XIII  quarter  nearer  the  sea.  Travel  impressions 
are  largely  dependent  upon  itinerary.  I  am  often  able 
to  surprise  a  compatriot  whose  knowledge  of  Europe  is 
limited  to  one  "bang-up  trip,  and  there  wasn't  much  we 
missed,  y'know,"  by  being  able  to  tell  him  the  order  in 
which  he  visited  places.  It  is  an  easy  thing  to  do.  You 
simply  have  to  notice  how  the  tourist  compares  cities  and 
[172] 


FREJUS 

other  "sights."  He  is  bhssfully  ignorant  of  the  fact  that 
his  positive  judgments,  his  unhesitating  preferences  are 
accidental.  They  do  not  express  at  all  his  real  tastes 
and  his  real  appreciation  of  values.  However  cultivated 
and  intelligent  an  observer  he  may  be,  unless  he  has  care- 
fully weighed  and  made  proper  allowance  for  the  in- 
fluence of  itinerary,  his  judgments  and  preferences  are 
not  to  be  taken  seriously.  For  years  I  honestly  believed 
that  the  Rue  de  la  Porte  Rosette  was  one  of  the  finest 
streets  in  the  world.  I  told  my  friends  of  it.  But  when 
Alexandria  was  revisited,  the  Rue  de  la  Porte  Rosette 
was  a  shabby  thoroughfare.  After  a  year  in  the  in- 
terior of  Asia  Minor,  the  Rue  de  la  Porte  Rosette  was 
the  first  street  through  which  I  drove  in  coming  back 
to  European  civilization.  The  next  time  I  saw  it  I  was 
fresh  from  years  of  constant  residence  in  Paris.  In  my 
memory,  Sofia  is  a  gem  of  an  up-to-date  city,  while 
Bucharest  is  a  poor  imitation  of  the  occidental  munici- 
pality. The  chances  are  more  than  even  that  my  com- 
parative estimate  of  the  two  Balkan  capitals  is  wholly 
wrong.  For  each  time  I  have  visited  Sofia,  it  was  in 
coming  from  Turkey,  while  stops  at  Bucharest  have  fol- 
lowed immediately  after  Buda-Pest  and  Odessa. 

I  wandered  through  the  cathedral  quarter  with  less  en- 
thusiasm than  was  its  due,  and  soon  decided  to  rejoin  the 
Artist.  He  was  not  in  the  neighborhood  of  any  of  the 
Roman  ruins.  He  was  not  sitting  behind  an  aperitif  on 
a  cafe  terrace.  He  was  not  watching  soldiers  play  foot- 
ball in  the  courtyard  of  the  barracks.  He  was  not 
[173] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


sketching  the  Norman  tower.  He  was  not  exploring 
alleys  of  the  medieval  quarter.  He  was  not  looking  at 
hydroplanes  over  the  fence  of  the  aerodrome.  My  quest 
had  led  me  unconsciously  back  to  the  beach.  There  was 
still  an  hour  before  our  rendezvous.  But  where  we  had 
stretched  in  the  sand  after  lunch  was  a  delightful  spot, 
and  I  had  remembered  to  have  my  pouch  filled  at  a 
tabac.  I  was  not  going  to  feel  bored  waiting  for  him. 
Where  the  German  prisoners  were  working  on  the  pier, 
the  black  soldier  guards  called  out  to  me  to  give  a  wide 
berth.  Not  being  a  local  fisherman,  I  thought  it  wise  to 
obey.  The  place  of  our  siesta  had  to  be  reached  by  going 
through  ruins  and  climbing  over  a  dune.  The  Artist  was 
there. 

"You  know,"  he  explained,  ignoring  with  the  sweep 
of  his  hand  the  Roman  mole  where  a  new  bevy  of  mer- 
maids had  appeared,  "the  progress  of  aviation  has  fasci- 
nated me  ever  since  that  July  day  at  Rheims  when 
Wright  went  up  and  stayed  up.  Just  look  what  those 
fellows  are  doing!" 

Hydroplanes  were  appearing  from  the  aerodrome. 
When  they  struck  the  water  there  was  a  hiss,  which 
grew  in  volume  and  acuity  as  they  skimmed  the  waves. 
After  a  few  hundred  yards,  the  machines  rose  as  easily 
as  from  land,  circled  up  to  the  clouds  and  into  them. 
Coming  down,  the  aviators  practiced  dipping  and  swerv- 
ing by  following  and  avoiding  the  purposely  irregular 
course  of  motor-boats.  An  officer,  who  spoke  to  us  to 
find  out,  I  suppose,  who  we  were  and  why  we  were  there, 
[174I 


'Exploring  the  alleys   of  the   medieval   quarter" 


FREJUS 


remarked  that  the  aviators  were  beginners.  We  were 
astonished.     If  this  was  learning  to  fly,  what  was  flying? 

"Our  boys  need  little  teaching  to  learn  to  fly,"  he  ex- 
plained. "That  comes  naturally.  What  they  are  learn- 
ing is  how  to  use  their  machines  for  fighting.  Science 
and  training  and  practice  come  in  there.  A  world-old 
game  is  before  you.     It  is  only  the  medium  that  is  new." 

Words  of  wisdom.  A  bit  of  aqueduct  led  us  to 
Frejus  in  the  hope  of  tasting  the  charm  of  a  more  ancient 
past  than  we  had  found  in  other  Riviera  cities.  We 
were  not  disappointed.  The  charm  was  there.  But  we 
would  not  have  found  it,  had  we  tried  to  dissociate  it 
from  the  present,  had  we  ignored  or  deplored  its  setting. 
Nothing  that  lives  assimilates  what  is  foreign  to  its  na- 
ture: nothing  that  lives  survives  dissection.  We  took 
Frejus  as  Frejus  was,  and  not  as  we  wanted  it  to  be  or 
thought  it  must  be.  We  took  the  aerodrome  with  the 
hippodrome,  the  coal  merchant  with  the  Norman  tower, 
the  parrot  with  the  gargoyle,  the  Hotel  de  Ville  with  the 
cathedral,  and  the  mermaids  with  the  mole. 


[1751 


SAINT-RAPHAEL 


[177] 


CHAPTER  XIV 
Saint-Raphael 

ON  the  terrace  of  our  little  home  at  Theoule,  a 
lover  of  the  Riviera  read  what  I  had  written  about 
Frejus. 

"If  you  have  any  idea  of  making  a  book  out  of  your 
Riviera  articles,"  she  said  positively,  "do  not  think  you 
can  dismiss  the  Esterel  and  Saint-Raphael  in  so  cavaher 
a  fashion.  That  may  be  all  right  for  Lester  Hornby  and 
you  and  serve  as  a  good  introduction  to  a  story  on 
Frejus,  but  in  your  project  of  a  book  on  Riviera 
towns — " 

There  is  no  need  to  say  more.  I  looked  over  to  the 
hills  of  the  Esterel  and  felt  sorry  I  had  neglected  them. 
I  thought  of  past  experiences,  and  agreed  that  there  was 
something  more  to  write  about  the  French  end  of  the 
Riviera.  And  then  we  put  our  heads  together  over  a 
time  table,  planned  to  go  to  Agay  by  train,  and  walk  on 
[179] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


the  rest  of  the  way  to  Saint-Raphael.  If  the  weather 
was  good,  we  should  climb  Mont  Vinaigre,  and  see  the 
Esterel  from  its  highest  point. 

"I  don't  care  whether  it  affords  good  subjects  for 
Lester  or  not,"  declared  my  boss.  "I've  done  the  trip, 
and  I  know  it  will  be  fun — and  remember  what  Horatio 
was  told  1" 

Humankind  and  human  habitation  had  occupied  the 
Artist  and  myself  on  almost  every  day  afield  from 
Theoule.  Of  course  we  had  taken  in  the  scenery, 
sketched  it  and  spoken  about  it,  but  only  as  a  background 
or  accompaniment.  From  Cannes  to  Menton  it  is  the 
human  side  of  the  Riviera  that  gets  you.  Nature  is  a 
sort  of  musical  accompaniment  to  the  song  of  human 
activity.  Between  Cannes  and  the  Italian  frontier, 
where  the  railway  does  not  skirt  the  coast,  you  have  the 
tramway.  It  is  with  you  always,  night  and  day,  and 
makes  itself  heard  at  every  curve.  (The  road  is  all 
curves!)  As  a  result  of  the  tramway,  or  perhaps  as  its 
cause,  the  Cannes-Menton  stretch  of  the  Riviera  is  solidly 
built  up.  Where  the  towns  do  not  run  into  each  other, 
an  unbroken  line  of  villas  links  them  up.  It  is  all  the 
city — you  cannot  get  away  from  that. 

The  road  we  follow  to  Frejus  was  opened  in  1903,  a 
gift  to  the  nation  from  the  initiative  and  enterprise  of 
the  Touring-Club  de  France.  The  building  of  a  tram 
line  was  fortunately  forbidden.  But  with  the  railway 
and  rapidly-developing  use  of  the  automobile,  the  little 
villages  of  the  Esterel  coast  are  being  rapidly  built  up. 
[180] 


SAINT-RAPHAEL 


Around  the  cape  from  Theoule,  Le  Trayas  will  soon  rival 
Saint-Raphael  as  a  center  for  Esterel  excursions.  Then 
we  have  Antheor,  Agay,  and  Boulouris  before  reaching 
the  long  and  charming  villa-covered  approach  to  Saint- 
Raphael. 

But  we  do  not  need  to  worry  yet  about  what  is  going 
to  happen.  The  blessed  fact  remains  that  the  Esterel, 
between  Theoule  and  Saint-Raphael,  is  not  yet  closely 
populated  like  the  rest  of  the  Riviera.  The  tramway  has 
not  come.  The  railway  frequently  goes  out  of  sight,  if 
not  out  of  hearing,  for  a  mile  or  two.  You  have  nature 
all  by  herself,  with  no  houses,  no  human  beings,  no  hu- 
man inventions.  The  interior  of  the  Esterel  is  as  re- 
freshingly different  from  the  hinterland  of  the  rest  of 
the  Riviera  as  most  of  the  coast.  There  are  no  cities 
and  towns  back  on  the  hills,  no  railways  and  tramways, 
no  fine  motor  roads  to  make  the  pedestrian's  progress 
a  disagreeable  and  almost  continuous  passage  through 
clouds  of  dust.  The  Esterel  is  hills  and  valleys,  streams 
and  forests  and  birds.  You  do  not  even  have  poles  and 
wires  to  remind  you  of  the  world  you  have  left  for  the 
moment. 

The  only  way  one  comes  to  know  this  country  is  to 
have  a  villa  on  its  fringe,  as  we  did,  and  get  lost  in  it 
every  time  you  try  to  explore  it.  But  such  good  fortune 
does  not  fall  to  everyone — nor  the  time — so  it  is  com- 
forting to  point  out  that  much  of  interest  in  the  Esterel 
can  be  visited  by  motorists  from  the  Corniche.  Between 
La  Napoule  and  Agay,  the  Touring-Club  de  France  has 
[i8i] 


RIVIERA  TO^VNS 


put  sign-posts  at  every  little  path  leading  from  the 
Corniche  back  into  the  interior.  Some  paths,  also,  where 
the  road  mounts  on  Cap  Roux,  lead  down  to  grottoes 
on  the  water's  edge  or  out  to  cliffs.  Each  sign  gives 
the  attraction  and  the  distance.  In  our  walks  from 
Theoule  we  explored  most  of  these,  but  discovered  that 
one  must  not  have  an  objective  for  lunch.  For  there  is 
no  connection  between  the  number  of  kilometers  and  the 
time  you  must  take,  A  map  and  compass  are  wise  pre- 
cautions. Some  paths  are  scarcely  marked  at  all,  and 
when  you  have  to  slide  down  the  side  of  a  volcanic  hill 
into  a  ravine  and  try  to  guess  where  you  are  supposed 
to  go  next,  a  woodsman's  instinct  is  needed.  The  ex- 
cursions are  surer  because  more  frequented,  but  none 
the  less  charming,  after  you  have  rounded  the  cape  and 
crossed  the  little  River  Agay. 

Agay,  the  Agathon  of  Ptolemy,  boasts  of  the  only 
harbor  on  the  Esterel.  On  one  side  is  the  Pointe 
d'Antheor  and  on  the  other  Cap  Dramont.  Right  behind 
the  harbor  rises  the  Rastel  d'Agay,  a  jagged  mass  of 
copper  rock  a  thousand  feet  high,  climbing  which  is  an 
excellent  preparation  for  and  indication  of  what  one 
may  expect  in  Esterel  exploration.  The  way  is  not  made 
easy  for  you  as  it  is  in  the  eastern  end  of  the  Riviera. 
But  unless  you  strike  an  exceptionally  warm  day  you 
have  the  will  for  pushing  on  afoot  that  is  completely 
lacking  at  Monte  Carlo  and  Menton. 

The  most  ambitious  and  most  interesting  excursion 
into  the  Esterel  that  can  be  made  In  a  day's  walk  is  to 
[182] 


SAINT-RAPHAEL 


go  to  Saint-Raphael  from  Agay  by  way  of  Mont 
Vinaigre.  You  must  make  an  early  start  and  be  ready 
to  put  in  from  five  to  six  hours  if  you  want  to  eat  your 
lunch  on  the  highest  peak  of  the  Esterel.  It  took  us 
from  seven  o'clock  to  noon,  and  we  kept  going  steadily. 
Crossing  the  railway,  we  struck  out  to  the  right  of  the 
Agay  through  forests  of  pine  and  cork  to  Le  Gratadls, 
then  along  the  Ravin  du  Pertus,  pushing  through  the 
underbrush  in  blossom  and  skirting  the  many  walls  of 
rock  that  served  to  indicate  where  the  path  was  not.  It 
would  have  been  easier  to  have  made  the  round  trip  from 
Saint-Raphael.  But  we  should  not  have  the  full  realiza- 
tion of  the  wild  beauty  of  the  Esterel  nor  that  joyful 
feeling  of  reaching  astra  per  as  per  a.  The  way  down  to 
Saint-Raphael,  after  descending  to  Le  Malpey,  less  than 
an  hour  from  the  summit,  is  by  a  carriage  road. 

We  wished  we  could  have  seen  the  stars  from  Mont 
Vinaigre.  There  was  a  belvedere,  and  if  we  had  only 
brought  our  blankets !  But  however  warm  the  day,  the 
nights  are  cool,  especially  two  thousand  feet  up.  Only 
those  who  have  slept  out  at  night  m  Mediterranean 
countries  know  how  cold  it  can  get.  The  top  of  Mont 
Vinaigre,  almost  in  the  center  of  the  Esterel,  affords  a 
view  of  the  ensemble  of  volcanic  hills  crowded  together 
by  themselves  that  makes  you  realize  why  it  is  so  easy 
to  get  lost  in  the  valleys  between  them.  The  forests  are 
thick  and  the  ravines  go  every  which  way.  Inland  the 
Esterel  is  separated  from  the  foothills  of  the  Maritime 
Alps  by  the  valleys  of  the  Riou  Blanc  and  Siagne  through 
[183] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


which  runs  the  main  road  to  Grasse,  with  a  branch  down 
the  Siagne  to  Mandelieu.  On  the  northern  slope  of  the 
mountain  is  the  road  from  Frejus  to  Cannes,  which 
leaves  the  Esterel  at  Mandelieu.  It  is  one  of  the  oldest 
roads  in  France.  Several  Roman  milestones  have  re- 
cently been  unearthed  here.  In  these  hills  the  Romans 
found  coal  and  copper,  and  from  the  quarries  along  the 
coast  at  Boulouris  and  on  Cap  Dramont  the  quarries  of 
blue  porphyry  are  still  worked. 

In  mining  possibilities  the  whole  region  is  as  rich  as 
it  was  twenty  centuries  ago;  but,  as  in  many  other  parts 
of  France,  little  has  been  done  to  take  advantage  of  them. 
Some  years  ago  an  American  friend  of  mine,  motoring 
with  his  wife  from  Frejus  to  Cannes,  discovered  coal 
fields,  formed  a  company,  and  is  now  drawing  a  revenue 
from  hills  whose  former  owners  knew  them  only  as  pre- 
serves for  shooting  wild  boar  and  other  wild  game. 
Within  her  own  boundaries  France  has  coal  enough  for 
all  her  needs  if  only  she  would  mine  it.  But  the  French 
love  to  put  their  money  into  safe  bonds  of  their  own  and 
foreign  governments.  The  woolen  stocking  does  not 
give  up  its  hoarded  coins  for  such  enterprises  as  mines 
and  domestic  industries.  Daughter's  dot  must  be  in  a 
form  acceptable  to  the  prospective  bridegroom's  family. 
And  then  the  French  do  not  breed  the  new  generation 
sufficiently  large  to  furnish  laborers  for  developing  the 
natural  resources  of  the  country'.  They  are  hostile  to 
immigration.  When  the  war  came  Asia  and  Africa  were 
called  upon  to  man  munition  plants. 
[  184  ] 


•We    discovered    that    Saint-Raphael    had    its    old    town" 


SAINT-RAPHAEL 


After  the  lesson  of  this  war  will  the  French  seek  to 
make  their  own  country  give  up  its  wealth,  or  will  they 
be  willing  once  more  to  invest  abroad,  relying  upon  an 
aggressive  foreign  and  colonial  policy  to  open  up  and 
protect  fields  for  capital  far  from  home?  On  the  edge 
of  the  Esterel,  a  dozen  miles  away,  at  Frejus,  Saint- 
Raphael  and  Cannes,  the  people  have  put  their  money 
into  Russian  and  Turkish  bonds,  Brazilian  railways  and 
coffee  plantations.  Their  sons  go  to  Algeria  and 
Morocco  to  seek  a  fortune.  Is  this  why  only  the  com- 
ing of  tourists  and  residents  from  a  less  hospitable  clime 
has  wrought  any  change  in  the  country  during  the  nine- 
teenth century?  From  the  standpoint  of  natural  pro- 
duction the  Riviera  is  relatively  less  important,  less  self- 
supporting  than  before  the  railway  came. 

By  the  forester's  house  of  Le  Malpey,  after  an  hour's 
descent,  we  strike  the  carriage  road.  An  hour  and  a 
half  brings  us  to  Valescure,  an  English  colony  built  in 
pine  woods.  Another  half  hour  and  we  are  at  Saint- 
Raphael. 

The  next  morning  we  discovered  that  Saint-Raphael 
had  its  Old  Town,  which  escaped  us  on  our  trip  to  Frejus. 
Only  the  new  name  of  the  main  street — Rue  Gambetta — 
indicated  that  we  were  in  France  of  the  Third  Republic. 
But,  as  in  Grasse,  we  felt  that  we  were  really  in  France 
of  all  the  centuries.  There  was  none  of  that  unmistak- 
ably Italian  atmosphere  that  still  makes  itself  felt  in 
Nice,  once  you  wander  into  quarters  east  of  the  Place 
Massena.  The  thick  walls  of  the  old  church — far  too 
[185] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


massive  for  its  size — bear  witness  to  the  period  when  a 
Mediterranean  coast  town  church  was  sanctuary  more 
than  in  name.  To  the  church  the  people  fled  when  the 
Saracen  pirates  came,  and  while  the  priests  prayed  they 
acted  on  the  adage  that  God  helps  those  who  help  them- 
selves, pouring  molten  lead  from  the  roof  and  shoot- 
ing arbalests  through  meurtrieres  that  can  still  be  dis- 
tinguished despite  bricks  and  plaster.  This  is  the  Saint- 
Raphael  that  Napoleon  knew  when  he  returned  from 
Egypt  and,  fifteen  years  later,  sailed  for  his  first  exile 
at  Elba. 

But  we  found  much  that  was  attractive  in  the  new 
Saint-Raphael,  which  is  as  French  as  the  old.  The  Eng- 
lish keep  themselves  mostly  at  Valescure.  Tourists  come 
on  chars-d-bancs  for  lunch,  and  hurry  back  to  Nice. 
Saint-Raphael  has  developed  as  a  French  watering  place. 
It  does  not  have  the  protection  of  the  high  wall  of  the 
Maritime  Alps.  When  the  mistral,  bane  of  the  Midi, 
is  not  blowing,  however,  you  wonder  whether  the  native- 
born  have  not  picked  out  for  a  seashore  resort  a  more  de- 
lightful bit  of  the  Riviera  coast  than  foreigners.  A 
Frenchman  once  told  me  that  Saint-Raphael  was  the 
logical  Riviera  town  for  the  French  simply  because  the 
night  train  from  Paris  landed  a  traveler  there  in  time  for 
noon  lunch. 

"This  fact  alone,"  he  declared  to  me,  "would  induce 

me  to  choose  Saint-Raphael  in  preference  to  Cannes  and 

Nice.     You  know  that  when  twelve  o'clock  has  struck 

the  day  is  ruined  for  a  Frenchman  if  he  is  not  reasonably 

[i86] 


SAINT-RAPHAEL 


sure  of  being  able  to  sit  down  pretty  soon  to  a  good  hot 
meal.  The  P.-L.-M.  put  Cannes  and  Nice  just  a  Httle 
bit  beyond  our  limit." 

As  you  emerge  from  the  Old  Town,  at  the  harbor,  you 
pass  by  a  large  modem  church  in  Byzantine  style,  whose 
portal  shows  to  excellent  advantage  six  porphyry  columns 
from  the  nearby  Boulouris  quarries.  Along  the  sea  is 
the  Boulevard  Felix-Martin,  which  runs  into  the  Cor- 
niche  de  I'Esterel.  For  several  miles  you  feel  that  there 
is  nothing  to  detract  from  the  spell  of  the  sea.  Else- 
where on  the  Riviera  you  have  promenades  embellished 
by  great  buildings  and  monuments  and  forts  and  exotic 
trees.  You  have  coves  and  capes  and  villa-clad  hills  with 
the  Alpine  background.  You  climb  cliffs  and  see  the 
Mediterranean  at  bends,  through  trees  and  across 
luxurious  gardens.  Panorama  after  panorama  with  dis- 
tractions galore  react  on  you  like  a  picture  gallery.  But 
at  Saint-Raphael  the  sea  dominates.  The  Mediterranean 
alone  holds  you. 

This  is  why  you  cannot  endorse  the  bald  statement 
flung  at  you  by  the  famous  sundial  of  the  Rue  de  France 
at  Nice: 

"lo  vado  e  vengo  ogni  giorno. 
Ma  tu  andrai  senza  ritorno." 

It  may  be  true  enough  of  Nice  that  you  will  not  go 
back.     One  has  the  confusion  of  human  activities  every- 
where and  tires  of  it  everywhere.     But  just  the  sea  alone 
is  always  new.     Of  course  in  the  end  the  immortal  sun 
[187] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


has  the  better  of  you.  But  as  long  as  Hfe  does  last  the 
effort  will  be  made  to  get  back  to  the  Boulevard  Felix- 
Martin  at  Saint-Raphael.  For  there,  better  than  any- 
where else  on  the  Riviera,  one  can  look  at  the  sea. 


[i88] 


THEOULE 


[189] 


CHAPTER  XV 

Theoule 

THE  Riviera  belongs  to  a  frontier  department.  To 
travel  in  frontier  departments  in  war  time  a  sauf- 
conduit  is  necessary.  In  theory,  the  sauf -conduit  is  good 
for  a  single  trip  and  has  to  be  renewed  each  time  one 
goes  from  place  to  place.  In  theory,  wherever  a  night 
is  spent,  a  permis  de  scjour  must  be  obtained  from  the 
local  authorities.  In  theory,  one  may  not  sketch  at  all. 
But  the  Riviera  is  far  from  the  battle  front.  Suspicious 
foreigners  were  caught  in  the  police  drag-net  during  the 
first  year  of  the  war,  and  since  Italy  came  in  on  the  side 
of  France,  the  military  authorities  have  not  bothered 
much  about  enforcing  their  rules  in  the  Alpes  Maritimes. 
If  one  takes  the  initiative  and  insists  upon  being  always 
en  regie,  bureaucracy  holds  to  the  strict  letter  of  the  law. 
But  one  who  is  not  looking  for  trouble  does  not  find  it. 
Hotel  proprietors,  all-powerful  in  Riviera  towns,  do  not 
want  their  clients  bothered.  Public  sentiment  is  with 
the  hotel  proprietors :  for  the  prosperity  of  the  Riviera 
depends  upon  the  unhampered  coming  and  going  of 
[191] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


tourists  and  temporary  residents.  Maires  and  adjoints 
and  gendarmes — and  their  relatives — have  villas  to  let. 
It  is  to  their  interest  to  minimize  red  tape.  Sauf-cotp- 
duits  are  given  for  a  month,  and  rarely  asked  for.  The 
month  is  up  only  when  one  leaves.  Permis  de  sejour  are 
not  mentioned  unless  one  makes  a  protracted  stay. 

When  we  decided  to  settle  down  in  Theoule,  and  some- 
thing had  to  be  done  with  our  papers,  we  were  dismayed 
to  discover  that  the  mairie  was  at  Mandelieu,  several 
miles  inland.  Helen  and  the  children  had  a  passport 
separate  from  mine,  and  our  maids  were  English. 
Should  we  all  have  to  "appear  in  person,"  as  the  rule 
stated?  The  adjoint  at  Theoule  declared  that  he  could 
not  think  of  allowing  us  to  put  ourselves  out  one  least 
little  bit,  and  were  not  the  maids  "cheres  alliees"?  He 
would  give  himself  the  pleasure  of  taking  our  passports 
to  Mandelieu  to  be  registered  and  stamped.  In  the 
evening  Monsieur  1' Ad  joint  returned  with  permis  de 
sejour  in  due  form.  Then  he  broached  the  subject  near 
his  heart.  We  were  a  large  family  and  would  tire  of 
the  hotel.  The  children  needed  a  garden  of  their  own 
to  play  in.  The  villa  we  wanted  was  waiting  for  us. 
It  was  right  on  the  sea,  and  the  view  from  the  terrace — 
well,  we  could  judge  for  ourselves  tomorrow  morning. 

This  was  going  a  little  too  fast.  The  obligation  of 
having  papers  expeditiously  arranged  was  a  great  one, 
but  we  did  not  care  to  spend  two  or  three  months  paying 
it  off.  We  made  an  appointment  for  after  lunch  the 
next  day,  in  order  to  have  the  morning  to  look  over 
[192] 


THEOULE 


villas  independently.  Luckily  Monsieur  T  Ad  joint's  villa 
seemed  all  that  he  claimed  it  to  be,  and  before  our 
rendezvous  with  him  we  had  decided  that  the  location 
was  ideal. 

From  Cannes  to  Menton  the  Riviera  is  cursed  with 
electric  tram  lines.  Only  on  Cap  Martin  can  you  live 
away  from  the  shrieking  of  wheels  around  curves  and  the 
clanging  of  motormen's  bells.  We  were  led  beyond 
Cannes  to  the  Comiche  de  I'Esterel  by  the  absence  of  a 
tram  line.  We  could  not  get  away  from  the  railway, 
however,  without  abandoning  the  coast.  Is  there  any 
place  desirable  for  living  purposes  in  which  the  railway 
does  not  obtrude?  When  choosing  a  country  residence, 
men  with  families,  unless  they  have  several  motors  and 
several  chauffeurs,  must  stick  close  to  the  railway. 
Monsieur  1' Ad  joint  was  showing  us  the  salon  of  his  villa 
when  a  whistle  announced  the  Vintimille  express.  He 
hastened  to  anticipate  the  train  by  reassuring  us  that 
there  was  a  deep  cut  back  of  the  villa  and  that  the  road- 
bed veered  away  from  us  just  at  the  comer  of  the  garden. 
It  was  in  the  neighboring  villa  that  trains  were  really 
heard.  We  were  to  believe  him — at  that  moment  chan- 
deliers and  windows  and  two  vases  of  dried  grasses  on 
the  mantelpiece  danced  a  passing  greeting  to  the  train. 
Monsieur  1' Ad  joint  thought  that  he  had  failed  to  carry 
the  day.  But  we  live  on  a  Paris  boulevard,  and  know 
that  noises  are  comparative.  Vintimille  expresses  were 
not  going  to  pass  all  the  time. 

We  were  glad  that  the  railway  had  not  deterred  us. 
[193] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


It  was  good  to  be  right  above  the  water.  Some  people 
do  not  like  the  glare  of  sun  reflected  from  the  sea.  But 
they  are  late  risers.  Parents  of  small  children  are  ac- 
customed to  waking  with  the  sun.  On  the  first  morning 
in  the  Villa  Etoile  the  baby  chuckled  early.  Sun  spots 
were  dancing  on  the  ceiling,  and  she  was  watching  them. 
The  breakfast  on  the  terrace  was  no  hurried  swallowing 
of  a  cup  of  coffee  with  eyes  fixed  upon  a  newspaper 
propped  against  a  sugar  bowl.  The  agreement  of  the 
day  before  had  been  tripartite.  The  proprietor  was 
easily  satisfied  with  bank  notes.  But  the  wife  had  not 
consented  to  leave  the  freedom  of  the  hotel  until  it  had 
been  solemnly  agreed  that  newspapers  were  to  be  refused 
entrance  into  the  Villa  Etoile,  and  that  watches  were  not 
to  be  drawn  out  (even  furtively)  from  waistcoat  pockets. 
Unless  agreements  are  fortified  by  favorable  circum- 
stances and  constantly  recurring  interest,  they  are  seldom 
lived  up  to.  When  promises  are  difficult  to  keep,  where 
are  the  men  of  their  word?  Doing  what  one  does  not 
want  to  do  is  a  sad  business.  That  is  why  Puritanism 
is  associated  with  gloom.  On  the  terrace  of  the  Villa 
Etoile  no  man  could  want  to  look  at  a  newspaper  or  a 
watch.  Across  the  Gulf  of  La  Napoule  lies  Cannes. 
Beyond  Cannes  is  the  Cap  dAntibes.  Mountains, 
covered  with  snow  and  coming  down  to  the  sea  in  suc- 
cessive chains,  form  the  eastern  horizon.  Inland,  Grasse 
is  nestled  close  under  them.  Seaward,  the  lies  de  Lerins 
seem  to  float  upon  the  water.  For  on  Sainte-Marguerite 
the  line  of  demarcation  between  Mediterranean  blue  and 
[194] 


'To    the    west    the    Gulf    of    La    Napoule    ends    in    the 
pine-covered    promontory    of    the   Esquillon" 


THEOULE 


forest  green  is  sharp,  and  Saint-Honorat,  dominated  by 
the  soft  gray  of  the  castle  and  abbey,  is  Hke  a  reflected 
cloud.  Between  Theoule  and  Cannes  the  railway  crosses 
the  viaduct  of  the  Siagne.  Through  the  arches  one  can 
see  the  golf  course  on  which  an  English  statesman 
thought  out  the  later  phases  of  British  Imperialism.  To 
the  west,  the  Gulf  of  La  Napoule  ends  in  the  pine- 
covered  promontory  of  the  Esquillon.  Except  for  a  very 
small  beach  in  front  of  the  Theoule  hotel,  the  coast  is 
rocky.  From  February  to  May  our  terrace  outlook  com- 
peted successfully  with  the  war. 

Young  and  old  in  Theoule  have  to  make  a  daily  effort 
to  enjoy  educational  and  religious  privileges.  We  won- 
dered at  first  why  the  school  and  church  were  placed  on 
the  promontory,  a  good  mile  and  a  half  from  the  town. 
But  later  we  came  to  realize  that  this  was  a  salutary 
measure.  The  climate  is  insidious.  A  daily  antidote 
against  laziness  is  needed.  I  was  glad  that  I  volunteered 
to  take  the  children  to  school  at  eight  and  two,  and  go 
after  them  at  eleven  and  four,  and  that  they  held  me  to 
it.  In  order  to  reach  a  passable  route  on  the  steep  wall 
of  rock  and  pine,  the  road  built  by  the  Touring-Club  de 
France  makes  a  bend  of  two  kilometers  in  the  valley  be- 
hind Theoule.  By  taking  a  footpath  from  the  hotel,  the 
pedestrian  eliminates  the  be»d  in  five  minutes.  In  spite 
of  curves,  the  road  is  continuously  steep  and  keeps  a 
heavy  grade  until  it  reaches  the  Pointe  de  I'Esquillon. 

I  never  tired  of  the  four  times  a  day.  Between  the 
Villa  Etoile  and  the  town  was  the  castle,  built  on  the 
[195] 


RIVIERA  TOWll^S 


water's  edge.  After  Louis  XIV  it  became  a  soap  fac- 
tory, and  was  restored  to  its  ancient  dignity  only  recently. 
I  ought  not  to  say  "dignity,"  for  the  restorer  was  a  baron 
of  industry,  and  his  improvements  are  distressing.  The 
entrance*  to  the  park  created  on  the  inner  side  of  the 
road  opposite  the  chateau  is  the  result  of  landscape  den- 
tistry. The  creator  did  not  find  that  the  natural  rock 
lent  itself  to  his  fancies,  and  filled  in  the  hollows  with 
stones  of  volcanic  origin.  On  the  side  of  the  hill,  foun- 
tains and  pools  and  a  truly  massive  flight  of  steps  have 
been  made.  Scrawny  firs  are  trying  to  grow  where  they 
ought  not  to.  Quasi-natural  urns  overflow  with  captive 
flowers,  geraniums  and  nasturtiums  predominating. 
Ferns  hang  as  gracefully  as  shirtings  displayed  in  a  de- 
partment store  window.  Stone  lions  defy,  and  terra 
cotta  stags  run  away  from,  porcelain  dogs.  There  are 
bowers  and  benches  of  imitatioil  petrified  wood. 

American  money  may  be  responsible  for  the  chateau 
garden,  but  the  villas  of  Theoule  are  all  French. 
Modem  French  artistic  genius  runs  to  painting  and 
clothes.  There  is  none  left  for  building  or  house-fur- 
nishing. French  taste,  as  expressed  in  homes,  inside 
and  outside,  is  as  bad  as  Prussian.  We  may  admire 
mildly  the  monotonous  symmetry  of  post-Haussmann 
Paris.  When  we  get  to  the  suburbs  and  to  the  provincial 
towns  and  to  summer  and  winter  resorts,  we  have  to  con- 
fess that  architecture  is  a  lost  art  in  France.  In  America, 
especially  in  our  cities,  we  have  regrettable  traces  of  mid- 
Victorianism,  and  we  have  to  contend  with  Irish  poli- 
[196] 


THEOULE 

ticians  and  German  contractors.  In  the  suburbs,  and  in 
the  country,  however,  where  Americans  build  their  own 
homes,  we  have  become  accustomed  to  ideas  of  beauty 
that  make  the  results  of  the  last  sixty  years  of  European 
growth  painful  to  us.  Our  taste  in  line,  color,  decora- 
tion, and  interior  furnishing  is  at  hopeless  variance  with 
that  of  twentieth-century  Europe.  We  admire  and  we 
buy  in  Europe  that  which  our  European  ancestors 
created.  Our  admiration — and  our  buying — is  confined 
strictly  to  Europe  of  the  past.  Present-day  Europe  dis- 
plays German  Schmuck  from  one  end  to  the  other,  and 
France  is  no  exception. 

On  the  walk  to  school  you  soon  get  beyond  the  chateau 
and  the  villas.  But  even  on  the  promontory  there  is 
more  than  the  dodging  of  automobiles  to  remind  one  that 
this  is  the  twentieth  century.  The  Corniche  de  I'Esterel 
has  been  singled  out  by  the  moving-picture  men  for  play- 
ing out-of-door  scenarios.  When  the  sun  is  shining,  a 
day  rarely  passes  without  film-making.  The  man  with  a 
camera  has  the  rising  road  and  bends  around  which  the 
action  can  enter  into  the  scene,  the  forest  up  and  the 
forest  down,  the  Mediterranean  and  mountain  and  island 
and  Cannes  backgrounds.  Automobile  hold-ups  with 
pistols  barking,  the  man  and  the  maid  in  the  woods  and 
on  the  terrace,  the  villain  assaulting  and  the  hero  rescuing 
the  defenseless  woman,  the  heroine  jumping  from  a  rock 
into  the  sea,  and  clinging  to  an  upturned  boat — these  are 
commonplace  events  on  the  Corniche  de  I'Esterel. 

The  world  of  cinemas  and  motors  does  not  rise  early. 
[197] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


On  the  morning  walk,  children  and  squirrels  and  birds 
were  all  one  met.  Children  go  slowly,  and  squirrels  and 
birds  belong  to  nature.  There  was  always  time  to 
breathe  in  the  forest  and  the  sea  and  to  look  across  to 
the  mountains.  When  cartahles  and  gouters  were 
handed  over  at  the  school  gate,  parental  responsibility 
ceased  for  three  hours.  One  had  the  choice  of  going 
on  around  the  point  towards  Trayas  or  down  to  the  sea. 
The  people  of  Theoule  say  that  Corsica,  sixty  miles 
away,  can  be  seen  from  the  Esquillon.  All  one  has  to  do 
is  to  keep  going  day  after  day  until  "atmospheric  condi- 
tions are  favorable."  The  Touring-Club  de  France  has 
built  a  belvedere  at  the  extremity  of  the  Esquillon. 
Arrows  on  a  dial  indicate  the  direction  of  important 
places  from  Leghorn  to  Marseilles.  The  Apennines  be- 
hind Florence,  as  well  as  Corsica,  are  marked  as  within 
the  range  of  visibility.  The  Apennines  had  not  been 
seen  for  years,  but  Corsica  was  liable  to  appear  at  any 
time.  The  first  day  the  Artist  went  with  me  to  the 
Esquillon,  an  Oldest  Inhabitant  said  that  we  had  a  Cor- 
sica day.  A  milkwoman  en  route  reported  Corsica  in 
sight,  and  told  us  to  hurry.  Towards  nine  o'clock  the 
sun  raises  a  mist  from  the  sea,  she  explained.  In  the 
belvedere  we  found  a  girl  without  a  guide  book  who  had 
evidently  come  over  from  Trayas.  She  was  crouched 
down  to  dial  level,  and  her  eyes  were  following  the 
Corsica  arrow.  She  did  not  look  up  or  move  when  we 
entered.  Minutes  passed.  There  was  no  offer  to  give 
us  a  chance.  We  coughed  and  shuffled,  and  the  Artist 
[198] 


THEOULE 


sang  "The  Little  Gray  Home  in  the  West."  I  informed 
the  Artist — in  French — that  a  specialist  had  once  re- 
marked upon  my  hyperopic  powers,  and  that  if  Corsica 
were  really  in  sight  I  could  not  fail  to  see  it. 

Not  until  she  had  to  shake  the  cramp  out  of  her  back 
did  the  girl  straighten  up. 

"Corsica  is  invisible  today,"  she  announced. 

"Yes,"  I  answered  sadly.  "Ten  minutes  ago  the  mist 
began  to  come  up.  You  know,  sun  upon  the  water — " 
A  look  in  her  eyes  made  me  hesitate.  "And  all  that  sort 
of  thing,"  I  ended  lamely. 

"Nonsense,"  she  said  briskly.  She  surveyed  the  Artist 
from  mustache  to  cane  point  and  turned  back  to  me. 
"You,  at  least,"  she  declared,  "are  American,  but  of  the 
unpractical  sort.  And  you  are  as  unresourceful  as  you 
are  ungallant.  Monsieur.  How  do  I  know?  Well,  you 
were  complaining  about  my  monopolizing  the  dial. 
There  is  a  map  on  the  tiles  under  your  feet,  and  a  com- 
pass dangles  uselessly  from  your  watch-chain.  I  won- 
der, too,  if  you  are  hyperopic.  You  know  which  is  the 
Carlton  Hotel  over  there  in  Cannes.  Tell  me  how  many 
windows  there  are  across  a  floor." 

The  atmosphere  was  wonderfully  clear,  and  the  Carl- 
ton stood  out  plainly.     But  I  failed  the  test. 

The  girl  laughed.  I  did  not  mind  that.  When  the 
Artist  started  in,  I  turned  on  him  savagely. 

"Well,  you  count  the  Carlton  windows,"  I  said. 

"No  specialist  ever  told  me  I  was  hyperopic,"  he  came 
back. 

[199] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


I  had  to  save  the  day  by  answering  that  I  was  glad 
to  be  myopic  just  now.  Who  wanted  to  see  Corsica  any 
longer?  The  girl  knew  interesting  upper  paths  on  the 
western  side  of  the  promontory.  She  had  as  much  time 
as  we,  or  rather,  I  must  say  regretfully,  she  and  the 
Artist  had  more  time  than  I.  For  eleven  o'clock  came 
quickly,  and  I  hurried  off  to  fulfill  my  parental  duty. 
The  Artist  told  me  afterwards  that  there  was  a  fine 
cuisine  at  the  Trayas  restaurant. 

I  did  think  of  my  compass  one  day:  for  I  had  sore 
need  of  it.  But,  as  generally  happens  in  such  cases,  I 
was  not  wearing  it.  Between  Theoule  and  La  Napoule, 
the  nearest  town  on  the  way  to  Cannes,  a  tempting  forest 
road  leads  back  into  the  valley.  A  sign  states  that  a 
curious  view  of  a  mountain  peak,  named  after  Marcus 
Aurelius,  could  be  had  by  following  the  road  for  half, 
a  dozen  kilometers.  It  was  one  of  the  things  tourists 
did  when  they  were  visiting  the  Comiche  for  a  day. 
Consequently,  when  one  was  staying  on  the  Corniche,  it 
was  always  an  excursion  of  the  morrow.  During  the 
Artist's  first  week,  we  were  walking  over  to  Mandelieu 
to  take  the  tram  to  Cannes  one  morning,  and  suddenly 
decided  that  the  last  thing  in  the  world  for  sensible  folks 
to  do  was  to  go  to  Cannes  on  a  day  when  the  country  was 
calling  insistently.  We  turned  in  at  the  sign.  After  we 
had  seen  the  view,  we  thought  that  it  would  be  possible 
to  take  a  short  cut  back  to  Theoule.  The  wall  of  the 
valley  that  shut  us  off  from  the  sea  must  certainly  be 
the  big  hill  just  behind  the  Villa  Etoile.  If,  instead  of 
[  200] 


■^^l^^r^V^ 


(rn 


Despite    curves,    the    road    is    continuously    steep,    and 

keeps   a   heavy   grade   until   it    reaches   the 

Pointe    de    I'Esquillon" 


THEOULE 


retracing  our  steps  towards  La  Napoule,  we  kept  ahead, 
and  remembered  to  take  the  left  at  every  cross  path,  we 
would  come  out  at  the  place  where  the  Comiche  road 
made  its  big  bend  before  mounting  to  the  promontory. 
It  was  all  so  simple  that  it  could  not  be  otherwise.  We 
were  sure  of  the  direction,  and  fairly  sure  of  the  distance, 
since  we  had  left  the  motor  road  between  Theoule  and 
La  Napoule. 

There  was  an  hour  and  a  half  before  lunch.  A  lumber 
road  followed  the  brook,  and  the  brook  skirted  the  hill 
beyond  which  was  Theoule  and  the  Villa  Etoile.  It  was 
a  day  to  swear  by,  and  April  flowers  were  in  full  bloom. 
It  was  delightful  imtil  we  had  to  confess  that  the  hill 
showed  no  signs  of  coming  down  to  a  valley  on  the  left. 
Finally,  at  a  point  where  a  path  went  up  abruptly  from 
the  stream,  we  decided  that  it  would  be  best  to  cut  over 
the  summit  of  the  hill  and  not  wait  until  the  Corniche 
road  appeared  before  us.  In  this  way  we  would  avoid 
the  walk  back  from  the  hotel  to  our  villa,  and  come  out 
in  our  own  garden.  But  on  the  Riviera  nature  has 
shown  no  care  in  placing  her  hills  where  they  ought  to 
be  and  in  symmetrizing  and  limiting  them.  They  go  on 
indefinitely.  So  did  we,  until  we  came  to  feel  that  we 
would  be  like  the  soldiers  of  Xenophon  once  we  spied 
the  sea.  But  the  cry  "Thalassa"  was  denied  us.  Even- 
tually we  turned  back,  and  tried  keeping  the  hill  on  the 
right.  This  was  as  perplexing  as  keeping  it  on  the  left 
had  been.  A  pair  of  famished  explorers,  hungry  enough 
to  eat  canned  tuna-fish  and  crackers  with  relish,  reached 

[201] 


RIVIERA  TOWNS 


a  little  town  inland  from  Mandelieu  about  seven  o'clock 
that  night  with  no  clear  knowledge  of  from  where  or 
how  they  had  come. 

Between  the  town  of  Theoule  and  the  belvedere  of  the 
Esquillon,  down  along  the  water's  edge,  one  never  tires 
of  exploring  the  caves.  Paths  lead  through  the  pines 
and  around  the  cliffs.  The  Artist  was  attracted  to  the 
caves  by  the  hope  of  finding  vantage  points  from  which 
to  sketch  Grasse  and  Cannes  and  Antibes  and  the  Alps 
and  the  castle  on  Saint-Honorat.  But  he  soon  came  to 
love  the  copper  rocks,  which  pine  needles  had  dyed,  and 
deserted  black  and  white  for  colors.  When  the  climate 
got  him,  he  was  not  loath  to  join  in  my  hunt  for  octopi. 
The  inhabitants  tell  thrilling  stories  of  the  monsters  that 
lurk  under  the  rocks  at  the  Pointe  de  I'Esquillon  and 
forage  right  up  to  the  town.  One  is  warned  to  be  on 
his  guard  against  long  tentacles  reaching  out  swiftly  and 
silently.  One  is  told  that  slipping  might  mean  more 
than  a  ducking.  Owners  of  villas  on  the  rocks  make 
light  of  octopi  stories,  and  as  local  boomers  are  trying 
to  make  Theoule  a  summer  resort,  it  is  explained  that 
the  octopi  never  come  near  the  beach.  Even  if  they  did, 
they  would  not  be  dangerous  there.  How  could  they 
get  a  hold  on  the  sand  with  some  tentacles  while  others 
were  grabbing  you? 

I  have  never  wanted  to  see  anything  quite  so  badly  as 
I  wanted  to  see  an  octopus  at  Theoule.  Octopus  hunt- 
ing surpasses  gathering  four-leaf  clovers  and  fishing  as 
an  occupation  in  which  hope  eternal  plays  the  principal 

[  202  ] 


THEOULE 


role.  I  gradually  abandoned  other  pursuits,  and  sat 
smoking  on  rocks  by  the  half  day,  excusing  indolence  on 
the  ground  of  the  thrilling  story  I  was  going  to  get.  I 
learned  over  again  painfully  the  boyhood  way  of  drink- 
ing from  a  brook,  and  lay  face  downward  on  island 
stones.  With  the  enthusiastic  help  of  my  children,  I 
made  a  dummy  stuffed  with  pine  cones,  and  let  him  float 
at  the  end  of  a  rope.  Never  a  tentacle,  let  alone  octopus, 
appeared.  I  had  to  rest  content  with  Victor  Hugo's 
stirring  picture  in  "The  Toilers  of  the  Sea." 

A  plotting  wife  encouraged  the  octopus  hunts  by  tak- 
ing part  in  them,  and  expressing  frequently  her  belief  in 
the  imminent  appearance  of  the  octopi.  She  declared 
that  sooner  or  later  my  reward  would  come.  She  threw 
off  the  mask  on  the  first  day  of  May,  when  she  thought 
it  was  time  to  return  to  work.  She  announced  to  the 
Artist  and  me  that  the  octopi  had  gone  over  to  the 
African  coast  to  keep  cool  until  next  winter,  and  that  we 
had  better  all  go  to  Paris  to  do  the  same.  We  were 
ready.  Theoule  was  still  lovely,  and  the  terrace  break- 
fasts had  lost  none  of  their  charm.  But  one  does  not 
linger  indefinitely  on  the  Riviera  unless  dolce  far  niente 
has  become  the  principal  thing  in  life. 


THE   END 


[203] 


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